


Pride of the Woosters

by curtangel



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtangel/pseuds/curtangel
Summary: Bingo is acting oddly and Bertie can't figure out why - maybe introducing him to a pretty girl at the upcoming dance will help?Takes place around the time Bertie would be going to Eton.To be crystal clear: JEEVES IS NOT IN THIS - this isn't an "everyone going to school together" AU.





	1. The Mumps

The problem with telling a story is always where to begin. I thought to begin at the dance with Wimbledon House or when I had the mumps then I thought about beginning over the summer when I chaperoned my sister to Misselthwaite Manor. I even went back to my childhood playing knights with Kipper and the boys and the next thing you know I'm talking about the beginning of the century on a certain date in Bramley-on-Sea with my father pacing impatiently.... 

Jeeves makes telling a story so much simpler - the man is simply filled with quotations and  _bon mots_. One practically trips over them daily.  The only thing clever I can remember anyone saying around this time was a story from Catsmeat I probably shouldn't repeat for posterity. So I suppose I'll begin with Bingo...

Since before we were in kindergarten together, Bingo Little wanted to be married. While our friends played at cowboys or knights (I like to think I made a fine Sir Galahad seeking the Holy Grail), Bingo wanted to play at courtship and marriage. As Jeeves has noted - Bingo has a rather forceful personality so I ended up being the courted wife more times than I care to recall.  I didn't really find our courtship games overly objectionable, though I made a point to grumble about it a bit here and there. I rather enjoyed the sort of attention the courted version of me got from Bingo. As we got older, we mostly stopped playing pretend - except now that we were going to Eton, even though our cubicles were right across from each other, Bingo preferred to pretend I didn't exist. 

When I saw him after summer break he had gone from one of the shorter boys to nearly matching me in height (and we Woosters are no slouches in the height department). But he didn't shout a greeting at me from over his cubicle, nor did he respond to a thrown bread roll until one hit him too directly to ignore. At first, he merely avoided directly interacting if he couldn't avoid it. But, after Mr. Brady (the Director-In-Residence who was in charge of the end of year school performance) had us boys who tended towards the willowy try on the costume gowns and do short auditions to see who would work for the girl parts, Bingo went from speaking to me reluctantly to avoiding me in a manner bordering on rudeness.  I couldn't figure it out.

Our house captain had posted an announcement that morning about the dance with the Wimbledon House girls school before the break for holiday. Naturally, Bingo was one of the most excited about it. I was hoping that if I introduced him to some particularly pretty girls at the upcoming school dance, he'd warm back up to me a bit. 

"You know some girls that go there, don't you?" Bingo shouted to Gussie, who was in his cubicle at the the end of our dorm (this is Gussie of the Mannering-Phipps variety - while I would count Augustus Fink-Nottle as a friend and gladly share my last pocket candy with him, assume that Gussie means my cousin for the sake of this narrative), "You can introduce me to the best looking ones."

Gussie poked his head out and shot me a harangued look. I was as sympathetic as I dared to be since Gussie didn't have the patience with Bingo I did. If I were to be honest, I was a little jealous. There was a time that Bingo would have turned to me for a request like this. 

"You can introduce yourself," Gussie stepped out of his cubicle, tightening his tie and straightening his coat. "The only girl I know is Angela, and I don't want to deal with you falling in love with her."

"He has a point," I acknowledged, even though Bingo wasn't speaking to me I wasn't going to pretend that I didn't have an interest here. "I don't want you falling in love with Angela, either. Its bad enough I'm up for the part of Juliet in the school play and Aunt Agatha has been pressuring me to excel at something. I don't want to deal with hurt feelings because Angela has told you what's what." Even at this tender age, Angela had the feminine Wooster quality of strong opinions expressed freely.

"You don't think I'm good enough for your cousin?" Bingo sniffed at both of us.

"Angela wouldn't be shy about telling you if she doesn't like you." Gussie threw in. "Its best you meet girls on your own instead of us introducing you to ones we know right away. I don't want to manage your love life, Bingo."

"Do you think me getting Juliet would be good enough for Aunt Agatha?" I asked Gussie anxiously - not for the first time. I had met Mr. Brady during the summer and I suspected he was half in love with my sister. I wasn't sure if this would work to my advantage or not, partially because I wasn't sure I even wanted to be in the stupid play except for Aunt Agatha's insistence that my mother would want me to be in it.

"Its one of the parts in the title. It will be fine. How can she say getting one of the main characters isn't ambitious enough?" It seemed to me that if there was anything to be found lacking satisfaction, Aunt Agatha would find it.

"I don't know if its worse if I get the part or if I don't. On the one hand, I'd have to wear a dress and make declarations of love to some fellow in tights, but on the other there's Aunt Agatha."

"At least you won't be the fellow in tights." Gussie noted philosophically. This was a small satisfaction, and I accepted it as well as I could at the moment.

"I'm not the best person at recitation under the best of circs. I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to make a fool of myself in front of the school."

"Where did Kipper go off to?" Biffy poked his head around Bingo's cubicle.

"He has the mumps, remember?" Bingo threw a pillow at him. "You chumps should have used his glass or something before they threw out his things. Get the mumps and get it over with. I had them over the summer."

"You've told us this story, Bingo." I moaned. But Bingo was off, going into detail about how he got the mumps from the church rector's daughter. His smile was disgustingly beatific as he described their perfect romantic kiss.

"It was worth it." he finished,  "And the mumps weren't that bad. I got ice cream to cool down my throat and all kinds of magazines to fill out my scrapbook."

When Bingo first told his tawdry tale of kissing the rector's daughter I was a bit shocked and concerned - however, some pointed questioning led me to believe that it was nothing more than an innocent peck.

"Well, I don't care what you say." I said decisively, "I'm glad I managed to avoid it.  Feeling peaked and wobbly is bad enough when its ruining a perfectly good holiday, but at school is the worst, no matter how eager they are to claim malingering."

"There is something to being able to be unwell in your own room." Biffy agreed

I developed a the beginnings of a fever the next morning and was immediately trucked off to the secondary quarantine room - the main one held several students who had measles which neither of us fellows with the mumps had yet.  Kipper was already in place and I was unceremoniously shown another bed where a medical type came by once day to take vitals and other boys who already had the mumps ran in and out with arrowroot pudding and linseed tea.  Kipper had already lost his chin to the throat swelling stage of the illness, but I was in no condition to object to the view as I was already deep in the sore and feverish portion. Neither of us were in any mood for conversation.

In fact for the next couple of weeks, I was too feverish to be proper company. Kipper wasn't exactly wanting for conversation, however, as he kept himself busy with the Book.  The Book - as it was spoken of in the most reverent of whispers - was of a rather stimulating nature. Presumably it had been eagerly thumbed through by many a previous occupant who reached around the top of the bed and discovered its worn covers carefully tucked into the stitching of the mattress.  According to those that have seen the Book, the original pictures (whether they were drawings or photos remain a mystery) had already been removed by other readers. Fortunately, the fellows who had been lucky enough to see these images had provided their own versions in the margins and inside the covers. 

I missed all of this because I slept perchance to dream for the majority of the time I was indisposed, dreaming of Misselthwaite Manor, which Jane (my sister) and self had visited over the summer. Misselthwaite Manor was one of those dark ancient houses that they seem to have up in Yorkshire, where the hallways are covered in generations of portraits that all watch you as if they can see you through the ages and don't think much of you. In my fever dreams the hallways curved on endlessly, with paintings leading to secret doors and further hallways where someone I couldn't see was calling my name.

Misselthwaite Manor wasn't as bad as all that but Jane got spooked when she saw the heap. This was the first time Jane had been allowed out to visit since our Aunt Agatha had taken charge of her. The only reason she was allowed to go at all was because Aunt Agatha had decided I was old enough to act the chaperone.  At this time, Jane was on the cusp of twenty-three, five foot ten and able to stop a rampaging rhinoceros at thirty paces with a sharp glance. She was capable of managing herself is what I'm trying to say. But Aunt Agatha was sure that Jane, so beautiful that she could lift her chin at the aforementioned rhinoceros and have it kneeling at her feet ready to be her steed wherever she needed to go, might as well have a sign on her forehead saying "Bounders may apply for my hand" and placed me in charge of the "family honor" and all that nonsense.

You'd think a strong minded girl like my sister would chafe at having her much younger brother put "in charge" of her, but she absolutely doted on me. Thought it was the funniest thing in the world to ask my permission to do this and that, though she did confiscate the gaspers I had stolen from Uncle Spenser when she caught me smoking. Luckily I had planned on such an event and had some of his good cigarettes hidden in my hat band.

But strong mindedness and all, she was spooked both by the pile and our host, who had the misfortune to be a hunchback just like Lord Udolpho from one of the gothic novels Aunt Dahlia had passed on to her. I started getting caught up in it, and soon I was seeing evil schemes around every corner. All nonsense of course, the elder Mr. Craven was a fine law-abiding fellow (though too old for my sister by far).  But it was quite alarming at the time - the wailing moor, a depressed carriage driver, ancient ruins. The fever left me disoriented and I had to be bundled back into bed more than once because I was up looking for my sister.

I didn't remember any of these dramatic fever wanderings so it was a pleasant surprise when I awoke to find Jane sitting at my side.

She, naturally, opened with a poem.

 " _Thank Heaven! the crisis-_  
_The danger is past,_  
_And the lingering illness_  
_Is over at last-_  
_And the fever called 'Living'_  
_Is conquered at last._ "

"I wasn't as sick as all that was I?" I didn't think so, but I suppose I didn't have the best perspective.

"What poem is it, Bertie?" she asked, all smiles.

"I remember..." I tried to think. "Something about flowers."

"Come on, dearest. Who wrote it?

_She tenderly kissed me,_  
_She fondly caressed,_  
_And then I fell gently_  
_To sleep on her breast_ "

"I say..."

She laughed again.

"That's the sort of salty language you get with the poets, Bertie. That was "For Annie" by Edgar Allen Poe. I win again."

The surprise was less pleasant when she admitted she had come without permission - I didn't want to deal with Aunt Agatha on a rampage.

"But you were asking for me, poppet. I couldn't stay away knowing that. The dean spoke to Uncle Spenser and assured him that I am welcome to stay until you're better."

Uncle Spenser wasn't the dear relative I was concerned about - I didn't quite leap around in agonies, but only because of the physical limitations of my post-fever self. For her part, Jane was certain Aunt Agatha would approve of her sisterly devotion.

"My god, Bertie, you're going to make yourself sick again." she said soothingly, "I promise - Aunt Agatha is almost certainly far more worried about the consequences of you wandering around with the mumps than my whereabouts."

I don't appreciate how Aunt Agatha views me as a bridge to more and better Woosters, but on this one occasion it came in handy. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else on Jane's mind as she informed me that my friends were "worried sick" about me and visited every day to see if I'd gotten better.

"Is Aunt Agatha being harder to deal with than usual?" I asked carefully

"It's nothing, Bertie." She insisted. "But, I'll be happy when you come to visit for Christmas."

I was soon after re....re... reinstated? revivified? no... recovered. Recovered enough to join the other boys in preparing for the dance.


	2. The Dance

I was very pleased with myself as I had carefully extracted all of the prettiest girls to talk up for Bingo. Looking around, I realized that I was the only boy who had monkeyed over to ask girls to dance a jig. No one else was out on the main floor as the student band started making noises like it was about to start playing.

"Come on." My current dance partner (the most eye popping of the bunch) pulled me towards the dance floor.

"Are you sure we're allowed?" Wasn't someone going to make a speech or give us instructions or something? "It seems like someone should shoot a starting pistol." 

"Let's show these cowards how its done." She grinned wildly.

I felt like an unpleasant spotlight was on me - but I soon realized no one was really paying attention to us. I suppose occasions like this are when dance lessons come in handy. Mary Lucas was a tallish girl - tall enough to not make me look like a giant (or even a beanstalk) next to her so I managed to not have any major foot stepping incidents.  She was also an extraordinarily pleasant conversationalist, talking and laughing so I forgot to feel self conscious. It was like we were dancing quick waltz in the hallway while spying on the adults who were at the "real" party. Gussie went to dance with Angela and soon others joined us to the point that one might actually get lost a bit in the crowd.

Towards the end of the number, I offered to introduce Miss Lucas to my friends, particularly my friend Bingo who I enthusiastically described as a very good looking and a great dancer. She politely declined saying she planned on sitting out most of the dances, but added that if I needed a break she'd love to chat a bit more.

I took my dance with cousin Angela next, hoping to possibly get her to act as a go-between to introduce Bingo to her friends. I tried to time our waltz so that we'd be by him when the song ended. He stood with a few other cancelled stamps at the side - eyeing a grouping of unpartnered girls. As I approached, I heard Bingo saying my name in a tone of irritation - it cut through the other sounds as if it were sent to me through a two-way. I spun Angela closer, ears flapping.  

"I don't think he'd enjoy it, that's all." Bingo spoke in a stage whisper. "Or if he did... well, you know..."  I didn't know. Somehow I instinctively suspected I'd be unhappy with the conclusion of that sentence.

"Well I've discussed it with the others, and they agree they don't feel comfortable leaving Bertie out." I recognized Kippers voice immediately - I couldn't believe it. Was Bingo trying to exclude me from something?  The positioning of self and the other dancers was such that I couldn't see either fellow. Kipper said something too quietly for me to hear anything but a murmur. Bingo didn't care for the drift of it.

"That's fine. Just fine." Bingo yelped in a tone that said it was anything but fine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to catch up and step out with some of these lovely ladies."

There was a beat change in the music and, as if on cue, a number of our fellow students suddenly cleared the way for me to see Bingo huffily grab a girl from the grouping without even a glance at her dance card. She was game enough to cheerfully shake a leg with him, but I couldn't believe it. Bingo knew better than to grab a girl like that.

I was so distracted by this I almost forgot Angela was present.  She was looking at me like I was a darling but ungroomed stray dog.

"Are the boys teasing you, Bertie?"  I realized suddenly that she had heard the whole thing and connected it to me.

"They must have meant some... other Bertie." I said unconvincingly.

"Well, if they are, you can tell them I'm your little sweetheart. I don't mind." 

* * *

_Dearest Jane,_

_I feel fine._

_The dance was fine._

_Bit rough getting back into things._

_School is arranging a tutor over the holiday to make up for the lost time._

_Looking forward to seeing you at Christmas, anyway._

_Love,_

_Bertie_

_P.S.  Angela said to send her love_

Angela didn't send her love but if I hadn't included that last little bit my letter would have hardly been a page even with all of the parts I had to cross out. I had to write big as it was.

Something was different when I returned to the dorm. It wasn't quite the welcome home I'd imagined, especially after my sister spoke so warmly about how worried everyone was about me. It was not unlike going back to class after having the mumps; as if I'd missed an important lesson in the dorm with the other boys rather than the classroom. 

The dance itself was mostly the sort of clean bright entertainment the school was hoping for. The only known issue was Bingo Little, who had been sent to his cubicle early with a promise of a few of the best in the morning when it was discovered that he had put himself on two dance cards for the same number. He had been trying to balance his time between the two by playing off the switch between them as a swing move when one of the chaperones noticed and told him to return to the residence hall. The lasses were content to dance the remainder of the number with each other.

Bingo has always gambled. I learned before even these events to not lend him money. It will inevitably end up in the pocket of the next cove with a sporting eye. Of course, on occasion you'd get your money back "with interest" but in the interest of friendship I'd already learned that to have a flutter on my own with Bingo was better than to lend him money directly. He lost more often than he won; but, when highly motivated, he could argue his way to at least evens by picking apart the rules until one had to acknowledge that he had a point.

So, naturally, Bingo made a bet with the other boys in the dorm on who was going to dance with the most girls. Being kicked out should have scotched Little right out of the race, but when we convened after the dance he insisted on counting them both as he had physically danced with them. After some lively debate, I was applied to as moderator since I wasn't in the pool. I decided that the wording in the original bet book was vague enough that partial dances could be counted. We Woosters are great believers in fairness, even when dealing with weasels who exclude us from things.

"Let's see," Little looked at his notes - Biffy had already returned to his cubicle to pack to go home for holiday. The other boys in the pool had congregated in Weasel's room. I watched from the doorway to act as an objective moderator as needed. "Biffy danced with three girls that he remembers, Kipper you danced with four girls," Kipper interrupted  to point out that he'd danced with all of those girls twice. There was a some heated debate as to whether the proper measurement was the number of dances or the number of girls.  The wording was found to be specifically about the number of girls and Kipper withdrew his objection. "Gussie danced with six girls and I danced with six girls. I guess that means we're tied..."

"I danced with seven girls." I noted. I felt it necessary to keep the record straight, even if I wasn't in on their pool.

"And," noted Kipper, "you danced with a proper bit of frock twice, you sly dog."

"Now, now," I said chivalrously, "Gussie danced with Angela twice."

"You made a beeline straight for the baby vamp before any of us even had the nerve to cross the room." Gussie seemed as gleeful as if he had done it himself.

"She wouldn't let anyone else on her dance card," Kipper said with a bit of awe, "you spoiled her, Bertie."

Little grumbled something but the exact words missed me.

"We're not tied, Bingo." Gussie decided, "Not by a longshot - I completed six dances so I should have won."

"We already decided this." Little argued.

"We decided you could be eligible - if you'd danced with seven girls, like Bertie, I'd gracefully tip my hat to you; however, since two of your girls were only half-dances I won the pool." 

"Now listen here...."

The conversation continued heatedly while Biffy (who, it seems, hadn't been listening in) decided it was time to return the dress slacks he had borrowed. I had been the point man for chaps whose trousers had suddenly become breeches since we were eight but Biffy was the sort who couldn't stand feeling like he was in your debt.

"Thanks a lot, old man! Do you need them back?" He waved the trousers around enthusiastically.

"You can keep them, they're too short for me now."

"Oh. Right ho." Biffy seemed to sense a certain thingummy in the air and skittered back into his cubicle.

I was applied to as moderator again and I sided with Gussie with no small amount of relish.  Little's behavior at the dance left a bad taste in my mouth.  I would prefer to think I overheard Bingo talking about some other Bertie making me a victim of one of those amusing misunderstandings; however, I couldn't abide by how he treated all of the young beasels at the dance. I was particularly miffed because - with no thought of self - I had singled out the best bits of raspberry in order to soften the way for him. I had saved that second dance with Miss Lucas (the aforementioned young saucebox I'd danced with twice) as part of my plan to get her waltzing with Bingo. Dancing with Miss Lucas was a pleasure, as always, but I felt an odd sort of pang as I saw Little being escorted out.

"I never would have taken Bertie as a ladies man..." Kipper's disbelief that I could get pretty girls to dance with me was starting to feel a bit insulting.

"Bertie is not a ladies man," Weasel (that is Little) said haughtily, "I'm the one who kissed a girl over the summer and that counts more than a few dances..."

"I asked a girl to marry me over the summer." The words slipped out before I could stop myself. Of course, the boys (except Bingo Little) immediately clamored for the story.

"Biffy!" Gussie rang out, "Bertie asked a girl to marry him and he's going to tell us about it."

"He can tell you in your room. Everyone get out!" Little threatened to follow up on this by throwing nearby objects at us but we tata'd and left, reconvening in my room. Biffy hauled himself out in his robe and slippers to join us.

During the summer visit to Yorkshire, I went on a jaunt through the gardens with our host's niece, Mary. That is putting it a bit strong. I was out enjoying the day and admiring the gardens and she happened to be returning to the house at the same time. Since our paths crossed, I offered to escort her to the main house.  While making conversation, she mentioned her parents were gone (as in deceased, not as in on a long trip) and she was being raised by her uncle... I'd never met a damsel in a similar posish to myself before.  It was one of those sunny but not overly hot  summer days where a robin was singing and... well I felt such a connection to her the words decanted themselves. She was rather startled but assured me that if, when she was older, she found herself in need of a beau she'd look me up. Now I imagine this would have been the end of it under normal circumstances, however things were a little more complicated than that.

Unfortunately, my sister had -in her nervousness about an imagined gothic plot - told our hosts that I was 18. We had quibbled a bit over the exact age - I thought I could pass muster as 16 more easily but she thought I could work as a "young" 18 and if Aunt Agatha had written them my actual age it would be easier to pass it off as a smudge error. I had, for my part, mostly forgotten about it. After I had smoked my uncle's good cigarettes and made myself sick drinking too much brandy at dinner, it was clear to me there was no dark plot and I went back to acting like a proper hobbledehoy who stole gaspers and drank watered down drinks left out by absentminded guests.

Mary reported my proposal to her uncle and it went over big. It seems that if (a perceived) 18 year old asks a 13 year old girl to marry him, it makes the aforementioned young lady's guardian ask some pointed questions. I did remember that I was supposed to be 18 - unfortunately I made things worse. As I recall, I made a comment along the lines of how I see 23 year old fellows marry 18 year old girls all of the time and what's the difference. Of course, there's a pretty big difference and I know that now, but when you're young such distinctions seem minor. Things got pretty heated - to the point of Mr. Craven threatening to make me walk a dozen paces - before my sister got wind of what was happening and ran in dramatically to tell them the truth about my age. Even then, it wasn't until she convinced Mr. Brady (who, you might recall was also a guest - our host had strong connections to India and was, in fact, childhood friends with Uncle Tom - knowledge that warmed me up to the old man and made the place seem less gothic) to cable a friend of his at Eton to verify that "Bertram Wooster" was starting school in the fall that things finally quieted down and I was sent to the kitchen to calm down with cake and fresh milk.

It was upsetting at the time, but I was soon laughing with my friends (except Bingo Little) who all howled at the idea of me having to duel the guardian of the first girl I asked to marry me. I was barely given a chance to put on a robe before I was rushed into the common room to tell the story to other boys who were still awake.  I went to bed feeling properly buoyed up and not thinking about Little's nasty comments or what my friends were doing that they were hiding from me at all.

For some reason though, my dreams seemed rather preoccupied with the dance, cycling through what I heard Bingo saying over and over. Sometimes I was dancing with Miss Lucas, but sometimes I was dancing with Bingo and events took another direction.

Spending the entire holiday not knowing what my friends were doing without me was going to drive me to distraction - I woke up with the sun thinking about it. Well, I woke in time to see the boot boy, which was as good as waking with the sun. I quietly slipped over to Kipper's cubicle to see if I could ferret out any information, gently awakening him by throwing balled up wads of paper at him. The moment his eyes opened, I demanded to know what Little wanted to exclude me from.

"Wah? What did you hear? Who's Little? Bingo?" I gave him a moment to awaken and when he seemed to fall asleep again, I threw more old notes at him until he awoke completely.

"I can't go on holiday worrying about this. What have you all been doing without me?"

"What have you heard?"

I tried to get out of repeating what I'd heard until Kipper made it clear he had no intention of telling me anything until I did. As I said it out loud, I felt sillier and sillier.  Bingo had been acting oddly lately, but what I actually heard didn't reflect badly on my other friends. Certainly no reason to be upset all evening, or all holiday for that matter. No, I realized, the thing that really bothered me was how Little treated the girls he danced with. I know he knew better than to grab at a girl and order her to dance with him. I felt as if his complete abandonment of everything we'd practiced in our young days was an indictment of me somehow, but I couldn't quite get my finger onto the nub of how. I realized how ridiculous I was being so, embarrassed, I stopped mid-sentence. Kipper seemed to misunderstand my feelings.

"Hey, Bertie. Its alright. The mumps really hit you hard." He patted me on the shoulder soothingly. Then he explained to me about the Book, which, it seems made quite the hit with everyone who could visit.  It was the sort of thing that rewarded careful study. "The fellows were visiting all of the time. Gussie tells me Biffy tried to get sick with the mumps but he couldn't quite remember if he'd already had them or not so we're not sure if it even took."

"What does this have to do with Little?"

"You said a few things while you were feverish, Bertie... I think you said a few things you wouldn't have said if you were thinking right and we all know that and no sensible person would hold it against you...."

"What did I say?"

Kipper got a funny look on his face before answering.

"You called Mr. Brady a Babylonian king for one thing."

"What does that mean?" I didn't recall ever having said anything of the sort.

"Well.... Its more the tone you said it in - its silly. Its nothing.  Bingo is being ridiculous. He didn't want us to tell you about the Book - that's all. He thought there was no point since you couldn't see it, but Catsmeat memorized some of the best parts to tell and we're not going to leave you out of that."

I was satisfied well enough with this and re-hit the sack, promptly conking out for several hours of the dreamless. I barely woke up in time to throw things into a suitcase and make my train. Biffy came by, trousers in hand, as I threw the contents of a drawer haphazardly into my case.

"Thanks for the dress slacks, Bertie."

"I don't need them back, they're too short for me." I was in too much of a rush for delicacy.

"We've already had this conversation, haven't we?" Biffy noted with some embarrassment

"Write a note somewhere to remind yourself, I'm trying to make my train so Aunt Agatha won't feel obligated to make a special trip to pick me up."

Biffy eased out and Little knocked tentatively on the doorway to my cubicle.

"Hey."

I acknowledged his presence with a crisp inclination of the bean as I thew myself onto my case to close it.

"Are you still going to be staying with your aunt at Woollam Chersey during break?"

His tone was improved by his morning caning so I answered in the affirmative, resisting the urge to point out I'd be going right now if he weren't standing in my doorway.

"I'm visiting in town...."

"Bertie, before I forget," Biffy's timing was impeccable, "I have a note here reminding me to thank you for letting me borrow your pants."

"God bless you." I burst out.

"I've already thanked you, haven't I?"

"Cross it out. You've thanked me. I appreciate your dedication to the subject." 

Biffy greeted Little with a terse nod before exiting. 

"I'm going to be in town right by your Aunt's," Little said stiffly, not really looking at me. "I was wondering if maybe we see each other at some point."

I was so taken aback that I agreed automatically. Nothing in the way he spoke or behaved suggested he actually wanted to visit. After he handed me a scrap of paper with the address he was staying at scribbled on it, I was half inclined to throw it away and give the whole thing a miss. But instead, I popped it in a copy of Sherlock Holmes that I stuffed in my pocket before racing out to catch the train. It took some running and the assistance of both a hale platform attendant and a friendly porter with a firm grip, but I managed to get myself and my suitcase hoisted into the train.

After I settled in, I absently flipped through my book. The scribbled address bookmarked one of those little quiet homey scenes between Holmes and Watson and I found myself thinking of Little with some affection. I considered him one of my best friends until he started acting oddly. But, then, I wasn't always at my best when I first started getting pimples at 8.  I decided I'd send Bingo a friendly postcard.  If he responded in kind, I'd let bygones be bygones.


	3. The Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied grooming for abuse

I was immediately met at the station by Aunt Agatha's new choice of brother-in-law for me. Aunt Agatha had been trying to marry my sister off ever since Jane put up her hair. Aunt Agatha used every pressure point she had to make sure the only men my sister met were Aunt Agatha's selection of bachelors - most of whom were titled or business types over twice (one or two thrice) Jane's age.  She firmly kept her ground and held her own even against Aunt Agatha's most intense pressure to accept this suitor or that. I admired my sister more than any other person I knew - even the guvnor would eventually cave in to Aunt Agatha in some manner.  Jane met the men, was perfectly courteous and polite and would then refuse every attempt at courtship with polite deflection ("You're like a father figure to me.") and, when needed, firm rejection. I still don't know how she managed to give Aunt Agatha's bachelors of choice the old stote-an'-bottle treatment while living under the woman's own roof and eating her bread.

I spoke to Purvis about this newest bachelor -  a Mr. Collins.

"I didn't think Mr. Collins would be continuing to inflict his presence this close to Christmas, eh?"

"No, Master Bertram. He is very attentive to Miss Wooster."

"Oh, I can imagine she isn't a fan of that. I've heard her complaining more than once of those suitors that think the way to her heart is to run to hold the candle for her at every opportunity.

"Mr. Collins and Mrs. Gregson seem very confident in his attaining Miss Wooster's acceptance, sir."

"We've seen that before, haven't we? And while Mr. Collins might not be as ancient or business as some of my sister's other suitors, he's also not as titled. This fellow is third rate, at best. A girl has to have some standards, what?"

"As you say, Master Bertram. A few words of warning - the ladies of the house have been indisposed. I've been instructed to inform the young master that he is not to practice piano or play music or do anything that would create anything that would be considered noise."

"So my planned performance of the '1812' overture is off then?" The man's lip twitched slightly.

"I'm afraid so, sir." He looked around himself a moment, before leaning in closer to me. "Do not seek out Mr. Collin's company, Master Bertram."

I had no intention to seek the man out for fun and company so I took this advice with a _Right ho!_ , followed by quieter whispered, _right ho_ when the poor soul flinched.

Due to all of the ladies laying in rooms with washcloths over their foreheads the Gregson household's strict rules about what young Woosters were allowed to do were stricter than usual leaving self with little to do. Aunt Agatha's bigger dogs were in their dens and her lap dog was keeping her company in her room. It was too cold to be running to town without a specific destination. Jane spent most of the day in her room with a migraine - which made no sense as she never had migraines. I couldn't find out what was going on what with Mr. Collins playing guard against younger brothers who might want to visit.  Uncle Spenser, to complete the household picture, was the quiet retiring sort who didn't look up from his morning paper until the evening one came. He did willingly pass me the crossword when requested. As my tutor had not arrived, I took the opportunity to not do schoolwork until I ended up doing some anyway out of boredom.  Lacking anything else to do, I wrote Little.

Little wrote back in a properly friendly manner, so I looked forward to seeing him. A stifling feeling of isolation was starting to come over me and a visit with Bingo would be just the thing. Through half coded comments on postcards, we arranged meet under the railway bridge with me bringing some gaspers and him smuggling out a small bottle of various adult beverages he'd cobbled together. 

Bingo was in good spirits and even brought me some magazines that he'd already culled for his own scrapbook.  My Aunt Agatha had particularly strong opinions about magazines and music halls and movies - all of them anti so I rolled them up and hid them inside of an inner coat pocket. 

"I think there might be some pictures in these of that singer you like." He said generously. I was exceedingly pleased with this peace offering and thanked him vigorously. "I don't understand what you see in her." He said as he lit his gasper - one of the good turkish ones, I might add. "She's not even that pretty."

"She," I said with the authority of a teenage boy in love, "is an absolute goddess."

While I was staying with my Uncle Henry I had been dared by my younger cousins to borrow my uncle's outer shell to try to get into a music hall and report back the wonders that awaited the bold. There I got to view the lovely Marie Lloyd singing songs that had the whole room involved. I found myself singing along even though I wasn't sure what the words were. She interested me strangely. I purloined several of her songbooks on my way back to my cousins. It was as if she glowed somehow. I wasn't brave enough to try writing for an autographed photo (I didn't care to find out what Aunt Agatha would do if she found me with such an item), but I gleaned images of Miss Lloyd to admire in quiet moments whenever possible.

Bingo didn't argue the point. After we'd smoked together silently for a bit, Little stood up and started pacing before turning to me in an agitated manner.

"Bertie, I saw you."

"Saw me what?"

"I saw you... when you thought you were alone..."

"Doing?" This back and forth was getting tiresome.

Bingo got a little huffy.

"I'm surprised you don't know."

"If you're trying to get me to confess to something so you can blackmail me into doing you a favor, you can forget it." Fool me twice, shame on me.

"Fine then." He took a deep breath, "I saw you wearing your sister's old clothes and singing."

"And what then?"

"That's... that's it." He seemed confused.

I couldn't believe it.

"That's part of having a sister. You've been acting like I was a snake about to pounce about this?"

"Well, yes... and what do you mean, I'm acting....?" He rallied himself. "If its so normal then I'll tell all our friends about it."

"Go ahead."  I chuckled, "Catsmeat and I wore his sisters clothes to do a performance with his family last year. Kipper was there."

"Oh, yeah?" He said this rather nastily. "And I bet Kipper and Catsmeat were all over you telling you how pretty you looked."

"Actually, Catsmeat had nothing but criticism for my walk and said I'd never pass finishing school. What is this about?" Then the last thing he said clicked. "You thought I was pretty?" I saw all. We'd always said that Bingo Little could fall in love with anything in a skirt and it seems he'd decided to follow the maxim to its logical conclusion. The best thing to do was to leave him be - he'd be over it soon enough. "You can have the remaining gaspers - I have plenty more where those came from. I should really be going back..." I briskly moved to return from whence I had come.

"Wait..." I did, hoping an apology was forthcoming. "I'm curious. Why?"

"I think I should be allowed to do things alone without explanation." I said coldly. I wasn't quite prepared to answer questions as to why, one Sunday morning alone at my Uncle Willoughby's, I climbed into one of Jane's old frocks, popped on an out-of-fashion hat and a half-broken fan while singing "When I Take my Morning Promenade", "Every Little Movement Tells a Tale" and "Wink the Other Eye" as I wasn't quite sure why, myself.  I tend to believe most boys with older sisters have done this at some point or another. "I think the real question is why were you watching me? Why were you even at Easeby? I didn't even know you were in the area."

"That's where I was being tutored last summer. I was watching for you at chapel and when you didn't show up I made inquiries. One of the footboys let me in the back." 

"You were being tutored by Gorbold?" I was puzzled, but before I could work out why I was puzzled Bingo jumped in.

"Okay, fine. Obviously I didn't kiss his daughter, but don't go carrying on to all the fellows about it and I'll keep what I know about you under my hat."

It finally clicked.

"Gorbold's daughter is barely walking..."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." he snapped, "I probably got the mumps from her sticking her fist in my mouth when I wasn't expecting it - her nanny couldn't keep her under control."

"Fine. I won't tell them, but only if you never tell that awful story again."

"Fine." He said irritably as we both sucked down the remaining watered down whisky/scotch/brandy mix and gaspers in silence. After we'd finished the brew, he suggested we meet again before Christmas and, to keep the peace, I agreed.

I returned to the homestead in something of a brown mood so when Pervis told me my presence was requested in the drawing room I went immediately to get it out of the way like taking medicine first thing in the morning. The drawing room was often where Aunt Agatha held court. I prepared myself mentally for whatever Aunt Agatha had heard about me or decided about me that she was going to beef at me about and was pleasantly surprised to find that the person who sent for me was Mr. Brady.

"What did you do, Wooster?" He laughed heartily, "You look like you were ready to be read the riot act."

"I don't know, yet. I thought I was about to find out."

"I'm here review the things you missed while you were sick, but I'm also going to help you remember your part." He tossed me a small book in a smooth movement.

"My part?" I had completely forgotten about the end of year play.

"You're going to be Juliet. This should be relatively easy for you to learn - your aunt tells me your mother had you memorize and recite all of the time so this should be a piece of cake. Start to familiarize yourself with it tonight and I'll work with you over holiday."

"What about my other schoolwork?"

"I've spoken to your teachers and they're willing to excuse most of the written work you missed as long as you do your reading and are caught up enough to start at the beginning of the session." I had been expecting a long slog of studying under some sort of taskmaster during my time at Aunt Agatha's but I could see some room to spread myself out here. "You dorm with Little, don't you?" I admitted I did. "He forgot his script. I saw him in town on my way in but I couldn't get his attention. Pass it to him if you see him." He handed me a second book that already had "Little" scrawled on the front cover, then patted my shoulder in a way I took as a dismissal. As I opened the door, Mr. Brady casually asked, as if he'd just thought of it, "How is your sister?"

He didn't fool me for a moment. Mr. Brady and my sister had become acquainted during our stay at Misselthwaite Manor. He and Jane had more than one pleasant walk in the gardens and along the lonely moor while I guardianed somewhere in the general vicinity. I had half-hoped some business would come of it - there was something about Mr. Brady's face I liked, even if he wasn't quite a Babylonian king.

"We haven't had much of a chance to speak, but I think Mr. Collins is probably going to be taking his leave sooner rather than later." 

He inclined the coconut as permission to leave. I was halfway up the stairs to my room when I was accosted by no other than Mr. Collins himself. I suppose this is as good of a spot as any to try to describe him. Its rather difficult, because he was the kind of fellow who could get lost in a crowd while you were looking at him. Not good looking enough to be attention getting nor ugly enough to be interesting - he was one of the most forgettable looking people I've ever seen. He had hair, two eyes, the usual human accouterments in the normal configuration and numbers, but anything beyond that is a loss. 

"I was looking for the household Casanova." He beamed at me. I was baffled at this description, and it must have showed because he explained. "Your aunt is very pleased with you - we heard you danced with lots of different girls. Excellent, my boy, excellent." I had a difficult time believing anything I did pleased my Aunt Agatha, and hadn't even considered that someone would be reporting my activities to my relatives. However, this was least important as I realized I finally had a moment to see my sister without the betrothed-to-be hovering over us.

"Have you seen Jane?" I asked casually.

"She's having one of her migraines and is resting up in her room." Jane never had migraines - she was as healthy as a horse. But I remained as the tomb. "I wanted to deliver this to you." He held a small envelope marked 'Bertie' out for me to see, before holding it under his nose to sniff. I didn't understand, but Mr. Collins spoke as if we shared an amusing secret. "Was this from the Mary you asked to marry you over the summer or a different Mary? You're a saucy little boy, Bertie."

"How did you get that?" I wasn't sure I was more shocked that a girl had written me or that he had somehow gotten his hands on it.

"A resourceful man always has his ways, like a naughty little boy can have a girl write him under his sister's name." He winked and squeezed my face like an overly affection grandmother before disappearing off to parts unknown. I rubbed the mug while wondering what he was about. No one who butters up Aunt Agatha the way he did was to be trusted in my opinion. I shoved the letter into the book I was holding without really looking. Shoving the contents of my hands into my pockets in general, I faked towards my room and, when satisfied Collins really wasn't in sight, I ran to my sister.

I heard distinct crying sounds, so, risking a row, I took my chances and opened the door while knocking.

"It's me."

Fortunately she seemed to take this action as a matter of course and spoke to me with tears in her eyes.

" _To regret deeply is to live afresh."_ She sniffled. "Finish the quote and tell me who wrote it in his journals." 

"Oh.. I know this one..." She was giving me a generous hint and I was going to make the most of it. I had to think, who had journals? Oscar Wilde? No... Robert Browning? It was someone.... "Walt Whitman?" I tried.

" _To regret deeply is to live afresh_. _By so doing you will be astonished to find yourself restored once more to all your emoluments._ Henry David Thoreau." She smiled through her watery eyes. "Oh, Bertie. I should have married Lord Whatshisname - no children or close relatives... who cares he was almost a hundred... He died last year and I'd be the dowager Lady Whatshisname right now. What's a few months from a lifetime? Nothing, right? then you could come live with me and we'd be free of these people."  She turned away, wiping her eyes. "Oh, I'm awful to be thinking this - aren't I Bertie?"

I didn't know what to say so I reassured her that she wasn't awful in my experience, and directed her attention to the fact that Mr. Brady was staying here to tutor me.

"That's perfect, darling. Please, stay in your room and study as much as you can stand to. Aunt Agatha... has been in an unusually prickly mood. Getting such an important part and having the director here coaching you seems to be satisfactory enough for now. If she asks about who you danced with at your school dance, please tell her only the girls from the best families no matter who you danced with."

"How do I know who those are?" In my experience the girls from the best families tended to not be quite as lively and friendly but, to be fair, my experiences with those girls were usually though my Aunt Agatha.

"Oh, Bertie. You really are going to give me a migraine. I know you can't help it, dearest. Do your best to behave with Mr. Collins - I know you're going to find him a pill, but... Mr. Collins approving of you is important, dear."

"You aren't... you aren't actually thinking about marrying him are you?" I was aghast at the idea. It seemed wrong somehow - as if Juliet married Hamlet and they lived happily ever after as King and Queen of Denmark - minus the happily ever after, I suppose.

"That's none of your business." She sniffed pertly, regaining her usual decorum. "Aunt Agatha is going to be at dinner tonight so you go back to your room and dress. I've got to finish my ladylike migraine before the bell is rung."

I left stunned. She absolutely was not marrying Mr. Collins. This left my options rather limited because the only other appropriate person available was Mr. Brady.  The main obstacle to this was that my sister tended to be... well, a bit of a snob. Possibly the result of a sheltered life, and possibly a little too much time around Aunt Agatha - she wanted to marry for love, but she couldn't imagine loving anyone who didn't have a Lord on a nearby branch of the family tree. I was pretty sure Mr. Collins wasn't even that exalted, so a proper selling of Mr. Brady might be enough to turn the tide.

Emptying my pockets, I put Little's playbook under the box I hid my cigarettes in to help me remember to grab it before I saw him again and tried to sort out exactly what was happening. I gave up after I started to develop a throbbing in my temple - too bad I didn't have Jeeves with me. He could have helped me work out a thing or two. The evening meal was the first time I had seen Aunt Agatha since I'd returned from school. She was in the sort of jovial mood that usually only followed a blood sacrifice as Mr. Collins constantly lubricated her with compliments when he wasn't waiting on my sister hand and foot.

"I put cream and sugar in your tea, just the way you like it." Mr. Collins obsequiously (if that's the word I'm thinking of) set the cup in front of my sister.

"I've drank my tea plain since I was a child." Jane said steadily.

"This simple modesty becomes you, my dear, but making your tea your favorite way is my pleasure."

"She's telling the truth," I said, "She's drank her tea plain as long as I can remember."

Aunt Agatha gave me a look that caused me to close the piehole with a snap, even as Mr. Collins decided that if Jane wasn't drinking her tea, then she must be full - insisting on the maid taking her plate away even as she continued eating, unabashedly grabbing forkfuls of food.

"Ah, young love!" Aunt Agatha enthused. Uncle Spenser made a vague noise without looking up from his plate. "So, Brady." She turned her attention to the tutor-director who had seemed to have entered a sort of trance he snapped out of at the sound of his name. "You speak English very well." I didn't understand this - of course he did. Why on earth would Eton hire people who didn't speak proper English? He didn't seem overly perturbed by the observation, however.

"I was born and raised in England - I certainly hope so." He was unflaggingly friendly in his response but Aunt Agatha didn't seem satisfied with his answer.

"What about your parents, where were your parents from?" 

"My parents were both born and raised in England as well."

Aunt Agatha's eyes flashed and I realized I should have warned Mr. Brady about Aunt Agatha. I wasn't sure how he was crossing her, but she felt crossed.

"Young man, you know what I'm asking."

After an uneasy moment or two, he responded slowly.

"My grandfathers are both English but both of my grandmothers were born in India. I didn't know them well and I have only been in Calcutta briefly when I was very young. I'm a member of good standing in the Anglican church and no, my parents don't have an arranged marriage set up for me with a foreign bride."

"There," she seemed mollified, "that wasn't too difficult, was it?"

"My uncle has business in India." I noted, hoping to move the conversation along, but a strained silence followed this observation. "He was childhood friends with Mr. Craven..." and I found so much air had been sucked out of the room that I couldn't think of a way to finish the sentence.

Aunt Agatha was being unusually easy on me - on this particular day she only told me to sit up straight, stop talking so loudly, stop dribbling food everywhere, and quit mumbling before she finally told me to go to the kitchen to eat if I was going to sit around like a lump and not say anything.

This was a common enough occurrence that Mrs. Sawyer already had a warmed plate waiting for me downstairs. When I had been sent to the kitchen when I was younger I used to pass the time talking to the foot-boys but the ones I knew had moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose, and the new ones were too young to talk to. The new maids were all strangely jumpy and too busy with dinner to be company. I counted my blessings that I was in the sun with Aunt Agatha for the moment - reading between the lines (and seeing all the new faces) I suspected she was being more difficult than usual and her usual was bad enough.

Purvis, the old butler, arrived after dinner to invite me to sit with the adults. I had been worried about this. Uncle Spenser had lately taken to inviting me to 'sit with the men' after dinner, seeming to think it something of a treat.  Perhaps with some it would be, but the company the Gregsons' kept had conversations that tended more towards 'the market' and taxes than movies and music halls. But it was a chance to get some digs into Aunt Agatha's current choice for Mr. Jane Wooster in front of my uncle- so I wasn't exactly dragging my feet the way I might have otherwise.

I arrived to the smoking room to find Mr. Collins and Mr. Brady but not my uncle. It seems that Mr. Collins had taken upon himself to act the hosts part and invite guests to smoke - it had probably never occurred to old Purvis that a guest would have the nerve to do so without my uncle present. I, for one, was deeply shocked. Perhaps Mr. Brady found it odd as well, as he declined brandy and cigarettes after dinner saying he had to look over my day's work, leaving me and Mr. Collins alone.

Mr. Collins poured a half glass of sherry and slid it towards me. Remembering how he'd been acting the bosom buddy to Aunt Agatha, I declined with a shake of the bean, reminding him of my age. Mr. Collins smirked at me in an odd way that made me feel.... it starts with an a... appalled? no... app...apprehensive, that's it. It made me feel apprehensive.

"You're a naughty little boy, Bertie. Writing letters to girls, sneaking into music halls...." I was startled. How would he know that?  I wore the mask, keeping my face carefully blank until he burst into laughter and hit me on the shoulder as if we were old friends joshing around. "Maybe not sneaking into music halls, exactly but..." as if he were doing a magic trick, he did a little thing with his fingers and suddenly my most precious possession appeared in his hand - a cigarette card featuring a colored photograph of Marie Lloyd in all her beauty with a fair amount of her underpinnings showing. This card had lived in my pocket all summer, to be cherished and observed during meditative moments.  I had gotten the card from a series of trades and barters and it had disappeared about the time of the trip to the manor. After examining my belongings thoroughly I had given it up as lost. To get the card to begin with was a mix of luck and circumstance - I happened to have two Billie Barlow cards and the other chap loved Billie Barlow - to get another would be almost impossible.

"Where did you..." I stopped. I had managed to keep myself from instinctively reaching out to grab my card back but just barely.

"Have a drink, Bertie." He slid the glass towards me again, This time I took it and he placed the card in my jacket pocket with a little pat. "You see how this works? You do what I tell you and you get rewarded." I didn't think much of this line of conversation.  He spoke to me as if I were a slow child still in first school. "Have a cigarette, Bertie." I got the pattern now, so I did. "Now what do you think your aunt would say seeing you smoking and drinking under her roof." I turned white which he took as answer enough. "Sending letters to girls. And with a picture of a music hall girl with an indecent level of lower limb in your pocket." He tsked. "I want you to keep this in mind when it comes to your sister's and my marriage." He leaned in very closely, placing his hand on my thigh, which seemed rather overly familiar. "We can make this fun if you keep being a good little boy for me."

I didn't know what to say to this but thankfully the door opened making a response unnecessary as he calmly drew back. I set my forbidden treats on the far end of the table to give the appearance of it being the gasper and drink of some other individual.

It was only Uncle Spenser - so, I made my excuses and ran back to my room to consider what had just happened. But, on realizing that I possibly had a moment to speak to my sister alone in her room, decided to take advantage of it. As I climbed the stairs to my sister's room I overheard an open door  _tete a tete_ between her and Mr. Brady.

"... sounds like a fine English name to me." Jane was saying. "I don't understand why they pretend like they can't pronounce it."

"...I get it all the time..." I must have passed under a stud or some particularly large piece of furniture because the sound muffled and then back in again to hear, "They didn't tell me anything about those donations to the school. I was hired based on a recommendation from a good friend of mine after my predecessor was drafted and the administrators stopped being helpful the moment they saw me."

I reached the top of the staircase to see the two of them seated comfortably, each drinking a cup of something or another. I ducked down to listen.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Jane was all sympathy, "but I'm not surprised either."

"Thank you for not telling me I speak English well, by the way."

"You're quite welcome." Jane laughed, "As Bertie mentioned, one of my uncles has business in India so I've had dinner with gentlemen of mixed heritage before - and I developed some suspicion comments like that aren't appreciated. I'm glad you gave my brother a chance - I think playing Juliet could be good for Bertie."

"Your aunt seems to consider your brother half an imbecile - he does seem to have a problem keeping his words straight."

Half was generous - Aunt Agatha encouraged our parents to "put the boy in a home and try again" until... well, until they weren't around to hear it.

"Bertie can be unexpectedly sharp at times. He has always had problems with words. He didn't speak until he was three. and even then he'd only sing." She trilled with laughter again.  "Our father wasn't concerned because one of his brothers and several cousins were the same way."

Family lore had it that Uncle Henry didn't speak until days before he was set to begin kindergarten - some relative or another noticed he had a particular interest in their rabbit hutch and offered to gift him a hutch and a couple of bunnies if he said "Mama" and, supposedly, without blinking an eye he said 'How many is a couple?' The man liked rabbits, is what I'm saying.

"Only sang? I've never heard of that."

I tried to avoid detection by squatting on the stairway close to the ground. This stirred up some dust and a cough was now threatening to make its way up. I did my best to suppress it as I wanted to hear what she had to say - she didn't talk about the time before our parents' passing often.

"The doctor said it was reasonably common - nothing to worry about and it would pass off on its own once he spent more time around children his own age. Bertie would sing snatches of nursery rhymes and songs. He can be a clever thing, in his own way." I couldn't see her, but I could feel her smile. "So if you didn't choose him because of my family's generous donations to the school, why did you choose him? I know it wasn't because of his memory abilities."

"Honestly?" She must have given affirmation because he continued. "I told the boys I was having them do try-ons to find out who could fit the dresses, but I was actually trying to see who would be most comfortable. As far as acting goes, one boy is almost interchangeable with another at this age. There's nothing worse than a Juliet who is uncomfortable in his dress the whole time. Bertie was happily twirling within moments." She must have reacted in a way he thought required further explanation because he added, "I mean, now that I see he has an older sister it makes a lot of sense."

"Yes, I did use my little brother as a dress dummy more than once. I... noticed what you mean." She cleared her throat.

Funny thing about a cough. There's usually a period one can hold it back, but hearing someone else cough makes it less controllable. At this sound, I could no longer contain the cough that had been sitting in my lungs and their little _tete-a-tete_ ended, as Jane directed her attention to my direction. 

"Is that you, Bertie?"

I recovered quickly, scrambling up the stairs I had been hiding behind.

"Yes, I wanted to warn you a bit that I was coming." I was now embarrassingly aware that I was preventing the very sort of thing I wanted to push forward with enthusiasm. And, unfortunately, they both realized then that it was best for Mr. Brady to excuse himself.

When my sister and I were alone, I tried to tell her about how oddly Mr. Collins was acting but I realized I couldn't quite get the flavor of the thing without confessing I had been smoking and drinking so instead I ended up with a story that she highly approved of where Mr. Collins found something of mine and returned it to me.

"I appreciate you giving him a chance, Bertie." and there wasn't more I could say other than a right ho

Now that Mr. Brady had a proper gauge of my recitation abilities I saw very little of.... anyone, as I was expected to spend my time either catching up on my remaining schoolwork or practicing my lines. 

I imagine you must think my plans to set up my sister were discouraged by this - but you'd be wrong. It was the work of a moment to convince my sister that I needed her help (she had played Romeo at her school) and surprisingly little acting sullen and childish about Mr. Collins hanging around to arrange me and Mr. Brady and my sister to be all alone together. Naturally, I needed to hear them demonstrate how to properly say the lines. You get a boy and a girl reading Romeo and Juliet, the rest comes together naturally.

I threw myself into my studies and the play - leaning as heavily as I could on my sister both to push together her and Mr. Brady and hopefully give her a break from Mr. Collins, who presumably spent his newly free time waiting on my Aunt Agatha instead. A couple of days before Christmas I finally got a note from Little that he'd be available the next afternoon at the same bridge. To prepare myself, I put on my favorite pair of holiday socks that morning that were red with little green wreaths. I had bought them with my own pocket money - my sister burst into laughter when she noticed them "The blind can see those socks, Bertie." but in between the isolation and studying I needed every little thing to cheer me up I could.

I brought Little his copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ and he stuffed it into his coat pocket absently. We sat and smoked and I told him about how weird Mr. Collins was being but he didn't seem to be listening, staring off as if he was attempting to read what someone had written on the opposite wall.  I fell into silence - not sure what else to say since he wasn't giving me anything to work with. Finally, I decided to push forward and lean on our long-standing friendship to be direct with him.

"Have you been avoiding me because you thought I was pretty?"

"Would you want me to think you were pretty?" I hadn't exactly considered this aspect of things and had to give it a moment's thought. I mean, one would rather be thought attractive rather than not - though I know I'm not exactly a model of perfection by anyone's standards. He seemed to consider my lack of response sufficient encouragement to speak because words about feelings that he'd been having for me and the thoughts about me seemed to spill out of him. He had (as I feared) decided he was in some sort of love with me. He poured out as many words about how disgusted he was with himself and how much more attractive he found girls as he did about the confusing feelings he'd had about me. I listened with a growing horror. If he'd spoken on how devastatingly good looking he found me with the same warmth as he did on how devastating it was to find me good looking... well, I can't say I would have felt differently, but I would have perhaps reacted with a little more consideration for his feelings. I wasn't exactly insensible to the compliment he was paying me, telling me all of this. But, I had my pride. It was one thing to play courtship as children when we'd walk through the gardens where he'd hold my hand and speak to me in a way that made my stomach flip-flop. It was another entirely for him to effectively hold his nose and say 'Since there are no girls around, you'll do.'

Even with all that I would have felt a little bad, except he seemed sure of himself in a manner that was rather enraging. It was hard to not feel embarrassment on his behalf. He  _said_ he felt unsure of what my reaction would be but his tone told me he had no doubt that I was going to fall into his lap. He finished by making a specific suggestion for an activity we might do together under the bridge that made me blush deeply. I'd never even thought of such things.

To add insult to injury, I realized as he came closer the fellow was as tight as an owl. He had drank all of the spirits and expected me to take this sort of thing stone cold sober. It was rather shocking. I was at that young hot blooded age - I'm not proud of the way I reacted.

What I should have done, was let off one of those cutting remarks like "Oh yeah?". But the Wooster blood runs hot, so, instead, I biffed him right on the beak.

It was Kipper who taught me - well, all of us coves, how to properly throw a punch without hurting your hand. What you do it you make sure your thumb is inside your fist... or was it outside? Make sure you know where your thumb is, that's important. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not at all sure what Kipper taught us is for regular fights or only boxing. It seems like it would be different since boxers wear those giant pillows on their fists. The point being that I successfully connected knuckles to nose without hurting myself.

He held the honker in shock.

"What did you do that for? If you didn't want to, you could have just said no."

"Since you worked so hard to fight these feelings, I figured I'd make it easier on you to get over them." I must confess I was feeling hot under the collar and spoiling for a fight - I couldn't say why exactly, but in that moment there was no person in the world I resented quite like Little.

"Oh is that how it is?" He grabbed a resentful handkerchief from his pocket to catch the blood that was already beginning to drip. "Would you rather I pretend its normal to feel that way? Just announce to all of our friends I think you're the best looking boy in our year, like that's the sort of thing boys say about each other?"

I chose to not follow up this line.

"You didn't have to insult me!"

"I figured you'd been through the same thing when you realized you felt that way about me and you'd understand."

"I never felt that way." His eyes widened. "I didn't even know people did that sort of thing. But even so - even if you'd spoken to me a in a more gentlemanly manner - you've been mean to me. You've been ignoring me."

"I'm sorry I don't make you the center of my social life." He said rather nastily.

"You've been leaving me out of things with our friends."

Little started a bit.

"I was right to leave you out of that - you wouldn't have enjoyed it." Little snapped back, sharply.

"And you were rude and disrespectful to those girls at the dance.  I wouldn't be surprised if this is more about you being jealous."

"Jealous? Of you? Ha!"

"You don't like that I could ask all those pretty girls to dance while you sat on the dance floor twiddling your fingers." 

"You only asked those girls to dance so you could introduce them to me. I know how you think." He said this with such disdain in his voice that if he were wrong I would have merely laughed lightly; however, as it was I considered myself severely provoked and pushed him down. Then he pushed me down in turn, after which I gave him a thick ear and sort of lost track of things for a little while.

Neither Bingo, nor I really had our hearts in fighting but once we started we couldn't seem to find our way to stopping. When the local constable came over to break it up and we had to run in separate directions, it was almost a relief. I don't know which of us the fellow followed but I ran until I reached the stables, trusting that I could probably outrun a constable who tended to be a bit wider than tall.

The stable was the only place I was aware of where I could have a bit of privacy before I had to return to the house and deal with questions about my torn clothing and the black eye I could feel starting to form.  I took advantage of the isolation to have a good manly cry

I don't know how long I sat in loft indulging myself, but I was reaching the point where I'd have to return to the house sometime. I've always tended to be a peaceful chap and have rarely been as provoked as I was by Little at that moment. But I also knew that I couldn't reveal the real reason we were fighting to anyone at the house. I wasn't sure how to properly proceed. Fortunately, that was the time someone arrived.

"Jack?" a voice softly called out across the stable. "Jack, are you hiding out here boy?"

I didn't recognize the voice or the name it was calling, but Aunt Agatha had been dismissing servants left and right so I wasn't always up to date on who was still present.

"I'm pretty sure its just me." I said. I tried to make sure my nose was wiped and and my throat clear but my voice still trembled in the telltale 'this person was just crying' manner.

"Excuse me, sir." the fellow was still half cloaked in darkness, "I thought I heard a child..." he trailed off.

"That was me." I said, without really thinking about it.

He opened the stable door more completely, bringing light onto me.

"Are you Mrs. Gregson's nephew?" 

"Guilty." I said halfheartedly. This wasn't the first time I've been referred to in this manner, with varying expressions of shock, disgust and dismay depending on the stories Aunt Agatha had told them. In this case, it seemed to be a mixture of curiosity and concern. I came forward into the light and let the servant - who I now judged to be someone's attendant - give me the once over. His right eyebrow raised half an inch as he noted the blood on my shirt that almost definitely did not come from me, but he started noticeably when he got to my red socks with the little green wreaths. 

"Come along." he said sharply as if that had decided something. I followed him, to my relief, through the back entrance to the kitchen where he crisply asked Mrs. Sawyer, the cook, if she had a steak to spare for my eye. Once cook saw me, the rest fell into place as she bustled around to make sure I was settled in body and spirit. For some reason, I was always the cook's pet. I suspect it might have been from some instinctive motherly desire to fatten me up a bit as I have always tended towards the slim.

By the time cook had me patched up with her "special ointment", set me up with a steak on my eye and a very light drink of scotch and hot water to calm me down, the attendant had returned with Mr. Brady.

"Brady, when you are done interviewing your charge, I need to speak with you for a moment." He glanced at me. "Privately." The attendant then seemed to shimmer away. 

"What happened, Bertie?" Brady asked gently.

"I had a fight with one of my friends." I decided the best method here was as much of the truth as I could get away with and hope there weren't too many questions. He got a little smile on his face as if I'd said something amusing.

"I should see the other fellow, huh? Was it over a girl, Bertie?" I shrugged my shoulders and he seemed to take that as confirmation, playfully punching my shoulder (which I didn't really appreciate as my shoulder was still tender) and calling me slugger.  "I'm going to find out what Collins' man wants. If the steak takes care of the swelling, I can probably use some theatre cover-up to get the rest."

I nodded, grateful that I might be able to escape without finding out what Aunt Agatha's punishment for fighting might consist of. When Mr. Brady returned from speaking to the attendant, he looked at me like I was a ticking bomb.  He escorted me to my room in silence, speaking to me only when we were alone with the door closed.

"That Mr. Collins is an odd fellow, isn't he?" I agreed. "Has he acted... oddly towards you?" The scotch and hot water had loosened my tongue so I readily poured out my story about how he'd given me back my cigarette card with such strange comments. "But that's all? He didn't do anything else did he?" But he wouldn't give me an example of what he meant, telling me to not be alone with Mr. Collins under any circs and to make sure and tell my cousins the same when they came to visit the next day for Christmas but to not say anything to my sister, yet. 


	4. The New Year

That Christmas Eve I struggled to sleep - in the end, I dropped off after resolving to sob on my sister's neck and pour out all of my troubles.

Jane woke me with the crepscular light - to use one of Jeeves' gags. I had forgotten about the discoloration Mr. Brady's greasepaint had been covering so I wasn't expecting the surprise that appeared on her map.

"Oh my goodness, dearest, what happened to your face?"

"What do you mean is something wrong?" A sensitive soul such as myself doesn't like being awoken to be told that his face wasn't right.

 "You haven't been fighting, have you?"  I saw all and confessed that I had and the hurt look she threw me was very close to being as painful as a few of the juiciest. " _Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting._ I know you won't know that one, but that's a Chinese general writing about war. If a Chinese General thinks fighting isn't the best option to win wars, then I bet your little disagreement could have been resolved with a good conversation."

"It wasn't a war it was just a tap to the beezer..."

"Bertie," she said stiffly, in a manner that reminded me a of a particular Aunt, "You aren't becoming one of those little boys that roughhouse and fight all of the time, are you?"

I would have pointed out that young man would be the better term, but I couldn't think of a snappy way to say it as I had just woken and hadn't yet had a cup of tea.

She went back to her room to get some powder to cover up the discolored spots. She understood better than anyone that I had no urge to discover how far into the ceiling Aunt Agatha would fly if she discovered that I had been fighting. 

"Bertie, I have something I need to talk to you about." She was looking at me steadily, judging how well her powder was covering. I rather hoped this 'something' didn't involve the cigarette card Mr. Collins had passed to me earlier. "I'm engaged."

"Engaged?"  The Wooster brain, even - nay particularly - at that young age wasn't operating at full capacity first thing in the morning. The full meaning of what she said didn't sink in until she followed up.

"Mr.... William asked me to marry him again last night and this time I said yes." 

She said this neutrally, as if she were talking about taking the dog for a walk.

"Who is William?" I asked.

"Mr. Collins, Bertie. Who else?"

"Mr. Collins!" I couldn't believe it. The man had absolutely nothing to recommend him other than being present. 

"It's all worked out." She spoke quickly as if she were spitting the words out in disgust. "We'll be married early next year so we can have a proper household set up for you when you get out of school. No more bouncing between our aunts and uncles, Bertie. You'll have a steady household with us." She sounded so pleased with herself, I found myself hesitating to point out that I rather enjoyed bouncing around between our relatives. There were goods and bads at all of our aunts and uncles households - though if I were to be honest, the only good at Aunt Agatha's was Jane.

I decided to try anyway.

"I enjoy bouncing around between our aunts and uncles - really, I do."

She gave me that 'you brave little boy' look that made it so I never liked to speak to her about our parents.

"Bertie, I know you like to put on a brave face for everyone, but you can't enjoy not having a room of your own. Constantly being moved from place to place like a hot potato. Why, you're fighting! You got into trouble almost constantly at your first school and barely passed the exams to get into Eton. I don't think for a moment any of this would be happening if our parents were..."

Jane could be stubborn sometimes. She was convinced the thing I needed was her and Mr. Collins to act replacement parents on my behalf and she wouldn't hear anything else.

"If our parents were here you wouldn't be giving Mr. Collins the time of day." It slipped out before I could stop myself and she gave me a look that smacked me in the mandible.

"I won't hear a word against him." She kept a brave face for a moment before it slid off. "I can't take it, Bertie. I can't live with her anymore."

She didn't say who "her" was - she didn't need to.

"Has it gotten that bad?"

"Bertie, she's expecting." Then she looked at me sharply, "And if you say 'expecting what?' I'm going to box your ears." I had, in fact, been about to ask this exact question, but on this accusation I closed the gob with a snap and did my best to look more mature.

"I know what." I said proudly. "She's expecting a little stranger." and then it fully clicked. "What about Aunt Dahlia?"

"She's expecting, as well. That's why Angela came with Uncle Cuthbert to stay for Christmas."

"What about..." She interrupted me.

"Bertie, I promise I've investigated every other solution. Uncle Cuthbert has been under Aunt Agatha's thumb ever since he married Aunt Julia. Uncle Henry.... isn't well and I'm not going to become the unpaid governess to the twins when they inevitably are expelled again." The twins, Claude and Eustace Wooster, were born with cloven hooves and have been to a different school every year - usually finishing out the semester with a tutor. "I don't have any choice Bertie. At least this way you'll definitely have a place to go and be safe."

"What about Mr. Brady?"

"Mr. Brady?" she seemed confused.

"You could marry Mr. Brady." I suggested helpfully.

"Bertie..." she laughed, dismissively, "Brady is a very nice man, but he's not in a position to take a wife.  And he proved it last night with the absolutely childish way he reacted to Mr... _William_  and I announcing the happy news. Aunt Agatha dismissed him on the spot. Poor man had to take the midnight train back to London."

"Let's go to New York together then!" I said desperately. "Haven't we always talked about it? I'll get the money from our parents eventually and we'll find a way to get by in the meantime."

"Darling..." she had stopped laughing now, "its time you learned some realities about the world.  Aunt Agatha has been trying to have Uncle Henry put into a home. She promised me that if we ran away, she'd find a way to do the same to you."

"She wouldn't, she wants me to be a bridge to future Woosters too much."

"Its saying things like this that makes her think... never-mind, dearest. I need you to understand, I can't just think about my future. I need to think about your future too. This is the best thing."

"It isn't." I wanted to explain it to her, but I couldn't think of the way to do it. "Uncle Henry is harmless, he just wants to talk about his rabbits. How can Aunt Agatha have him put away for that?" 

"Bertie, do you remember Dr. Glossop?" I didn't. Honoria, his daughter, is the one that leaves an impression. Even then, she had a laugh like a train filled to the brim with dynamite and a back slap that knocked the wind out of you. "He's a personal family friend - and he'll take anything she tells him as gospel. She had him examine you after our parents... after she came to care for us and has on record that you had a 'very unusual' reaction to the situation."

I didn't care for black, I don't think that I did anything that bad.  It wasn't my fault that the guvnors favorite pair of socks were a cheerful shade of aureolin - my interactions with Aunt Agatha before then had been minimal and I thought if I could explain it to her, she'd understand.

"We'll get it worked out - please don't marry Mr. Collins. Give me time to think of something."

"What are you going to think of dearest?" She looked sad but also a little amused.

"Speak to Mr. Collins attendant. He told Mr. Brady something..."

"That's enough. Mr. Collins... _William_ dismissed his attendant last night as well. He was an incompetent fool, spreading malicious gossip among the staff. Now, get ready... we're going to Christmas service."

I ruminated through Christmas service so heavily that I wasn't even mildly provoked when Little stuck his tongue out at me in passing. Not even when he tried to pass me some sort of letter; I found myself sort of staring at it blankly until he took it back. Since Mr. Brady had gone on, I got Uncle Spenser's attention by bringing him the evening paper and, after successfully getting him to look at me, permission to leave with Gussie and Angela. I promised Jane I really would study with Gussie and not just take advantage of no tutor to skip out on my remaining work. I did mean it when I said it. Even after double and triple checking my packing, Jane still had to run after the touring car to bring me some things I'd forgotten.

"You almost forgot your playbook, dearest. Aunt Agatha is so proud of you getting that part. She's been calling you the next Lewis Waller and bragging about you to anyone who will listen."

"Oh, yes?" Somehow these accolades made me more nervous than the usual fire and brimstone.

"In fact she was talking about having you and her do a pantomime together, since she'll probably be missing your big performance." On the one hand, this meant she would not be at the play - which was extremely reassuring. On the other hand, I wasn't the world's biggest fan of the pantomime scheme. But I've learned to accept the little goods when they come, so I was highly appreciative of this information.

"You'll come, won't you?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, dearest."

She gave me a kiss on the forehead that I rubbed off after we'd gotten a fair distance away. I was flipping through my playbook absently and casually mentioned that I was going to be Juliet. And would you believe it? Gussie already knew! He then informed me he had gotten the part of Paris.

"I'm the last person to find out everything."

"I'm sorry, Bertie. I thought Catsmeat or Boko told you - you must have been too feverish to remember. They told me you were talking and responding to things they were saying and everything. Its hard to believe you don't remember any of it."

As per Angela, Wimbledon House was doing a production of Hamlet - Corky, it seems, had made quite the impression as the young Dane. Angela was working on costumes and sets so I asked her if they tended to choose parts by who fits in what costume. She was unsure, but did admit that the girl chosen for Ophelia was chosen for her petite frame. I always have had a willowy figure - they did seem to make chaps rather beefy in my year with heavyweights along the lines of Stilton, Kipper, and Chuffy stalking about the place.

When Angela said, "I have to tell you about the most shocking thing..." I knew it was safe to tune out except for the occasional acknowledgement sounds. I paid closer attention when I realized she was telling us about how Wimbledon House had started greatly reducing its scholarships to deserving girls because some of the older girls were viewed as being a bit overly aggressive in their attempts to social climb with some of the more wealthy student's brothers. It seemed rather callous to have talk like that with Gussie right there and all given the family history behind his parents' marriage so I diverted the conversation towards the news about Aunt Agatha.

"Mother is expecting as well." Angela said dreamily, "She says nothing much will change since I'll be in school most of the year and the nurse will naturally be caring for the baby when I'm there for the summer. I imagine having a baby around will be ever so jolly, don't you Bertie?"

In the end, I didn't do much with my schoolwork other than sort of skim over it a bit - but that was because the Mannering-Phipps' were having a house party for the new year that took up a great deal of my time and attention. Catsmeat was allowed to accompany his parents and he is exhausting under the best of circs. I considered pouring my troubles out to Gussie and Catsmeat.  Gussie was one of my closest friends but experience has taught me that anything you say to any family member had a strange way of making its way back to Aunt Agatha. Catsmeat was an incredible amount of fun, but the fellow had a bad tendency to tell everyone everything. Wisdom told me to stay mum about everything but the most bare facts when I had to answer some pointed questions after my sister's powder wore off.

"Who have you been fighting with?" Gussie asked with concern.

"Little and I had a falling out."

"Who's Little? Bingo?" Gussie considered this and then laughed heartily. "Are you the one who gave him that thick ear he was sporting at Christmas service?"

I assented I was.

"Oh, please tell me you punched him the nose." Catsmeat crowed, "If there is anyone who needed a good poke in the beak this last year, it has been Bingo Little." I didn't quite know what to make of this. "You don't have to tell me why you did it, I don't need to know. But Bingo has been asking for someone to get sick of his attitude for a while now."

Neither of them could come up with a satisfactory explanation when I questioned them on the matter. 

Even though the three of us rode together as pally as ever, I felt rather unloved and alone as the train took me back to Eton. I'd done my best to completely erase the fight I had with Little from my mind, and the few times I did think of it, it was to look for signs that it was some sort of joke I misunderstood or maybe even a misguided wager because that was the only thing that made sense.

I had barely set my travelling case on my bed before Mr. Brady called me to his office. I admit, I was hoping, rather than dreading, that he would tell me that my services as Juliet were no longer needed. 

"I'm sorry I had to leave, Wooster. I was called away suddenly for a family emergency." I nodded sagely, I'd long learned to politely ignore face saving fictions such as this. "I've been thinking and it would be best if we redirected our focus." I did my best to look mature and understanding, but he took a turn I wasn't expecting as he said, "Memorization isn't everything. John Barrymore can't memorize his lines. Rumor has it, he has them hidden all over the stage and after a show you'll find lines written all over the back of props and such." He pulled out a tied-up packet. "So, instead of worrying about you remembering your lines, we're going to focus on how to hide that you're reading your lines. I put together these from my extra book, and when we start practicing, I'll show you how you can pin these in your sleeve so its not obvious you're looking at them."

"I can memorize them." I insisted. Looking at the words seemed to be cheating somehow.

"Of course," he seemed unconvinced. "This is just a back up plan so you won't get stuck." Then as if he just thought of it, he added. "Send your sister my congratulations, next time you write. She is a remarkable woman - I've never met anyone who could casually quote the  _Art of War_ while in a rage before. I hope them all the happiness."

This wasn't exactly the outcome I was hoping for - if anything it was almost a bit insulting. I decided I was going to work to get the lines memorized the best I was able and put the Wooster iron clad will to the subj.

Little and I seemed to have reached a truce of sorts - at the very least I stopped trying to make friendly with him and we treated each other neutrally when we inevitably had to interact over the course of the day. He was gone most evenings being tutored in something or another. 

My sister and I mostly avoided the subj. of her upcoming marriage when we wrote but in this most recent letter she coolly reminded me that I wouldn't be staying with Aunt Dahlia this coming summer but her and Mr. Collins. "It will be fun." she wrote and for some reason I got a feeling like a preying mantis was playing the marimba on my sacroiliac.

She didn't write me the exact date of her happy plans, presumably to keep me from any attempt to stop it, but based on what she wrote I suspected I would get the official "good news" anytime.

On this particular afternoon, I was reading my correspondence in the common room where various chaps were reading, playing cards and otherwise occupying themselves, so I shouldn't have been too surprised when Little loomed around the periphery.

"Bertie?" He sounded quiet and shamed in a manner I'd never heard him speak previously. "I...uh... I've been thinking a lot. I wronged you in the way I spoke to you around Christmas."

I appreciated him offering the lily of peace, but I wished he hadn't done so publicly. 

"Its fine, old thing. Consider the troubled waters under the bridge."

"No, its not fine. I was completely in the wrong to speak to you like that. I'm sorry." I was deeply touched. I've never known Bingo to apologize for anything, much less in the hearing of others. In first school, I took some of the juiciest on his behalf more than my fair share and never even got a casual thanks. _"_  I wanted to let you know that I've... been writing to your girlfriend. And if you want to give me another bloody nose for it, I deserve it." He flinched as if expecting the hit.

This got some attention from some of the chaps nearby.

"You have a girlfriend, Bertie?" "Good show, Bertie!" and other comments of that sort.

I was puzzled.

"I don't have a girlfriend. What are you talking about?"

"Mary Lucas - the girl you danced with twice. I guess you hid her letter in my book and didn't realize you left it. I've been writing her pretending to be you."

"You...you what?" I looked at him with something like wild surmise. Little visibly flinched.

"In my defense I tried to give it back to you at Christmas service. But I've given it a lot of thought. I'm sorry, Bertie. You'd never get between me and a girl like that."

"I never even read that letter."

"What? It was open!"

"It must have been open when it was given to me. I completely forgot about it. I would have torn it up if I'd remembered it."

"OH.... Bertie... I made plans to meet with her at the shed by the docks tonight!"

"What did you expect to happen when she realized it was you?"

"I guess I didn't think that far..." Bingo admitted.

"Oh, Bertie, don't go." Chuffy jumped in quickly. "I've heard about this - there was a boy who was already expelled for this sort of thing."

"That's just a rumor." Boko insisted. "He was expelled because he had too much cheek. I bet we can come up with a million reasons for Bertie to go to the boat shed."

I had a difficult decision to make. Unfortunately the code of the Woosters was clear. It would lack chivalry to allow a young beasel to come to Eton to meet up with yours truly and her find an empty and lonely shed.

"Bertie, you didn't make the promise. Make Bingo go." Gussie never did have much truck for Bingo for reasons I normally didn't understand.

"I can go..." Bingo said woefully. 

I will confess I considered it, but the pride of the Woosters was at stake. The girl might be alarmed at a strange boy. And, after Bingo offered the lily of peace, was I to dash it at his feet and step on it?

The chaps who overheard - Gussie, Chuffy, and Boko - were already involved - I trusted them all absolutely - and between the group of us we came up with a plan to get me out of the school and even came up with an excuse I could use if I got caught. I had been fagging for a couple of older fellows who were rowers, and the boys and I came up with several reasons for me to be mucking about on the dock.

I got to the shed to find Mary already there with a spread out blanket on the ground and a bottle of something or another and a couple of glasses in her hands.

"If I'd known I was going to be meeting you I would have stolen a proper flower arrangement from the dining room. I sort of feel like I unexpectedly had to go to the dentist." I embarrassedly explained the situation - that her letter had ended up in a book I had to return to a friend and he had thoughtlessly and cavalierly written to her as me.  She took it better than expected. It was my understanding that beasels didn't appreciate the Cyrano treatment.

"What matters, Bertie, is that you're here now." 

This was the sort of attitude that could grow on a fellow. I tried to act manly and mature and take charge of the sitch by indicating the blanket,

"Would you like to sit first?"

"My goodness, Bertie, you do get right down to business, don't you?" 

"I do my best to be the height of chivalry. We Woosters see a young lady standing, we tell her to have a seat."

She patted the square of blanket next to her and I took the spot. She looked up expectantly. I looked up too and saw absolutely nothing of interest other than the inside of the shed which seemed rather standard for this sort of thing. I checked in with her and she was still looking at the ceiling of the shed as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. I repeated this two or three more times, because I couldn't imagine what it was that was holding her interest so strongly. I finally stood to look more closely because the girl had to have had the eye of a hawk to have seen anything other than the top of the paddles and I said so.

"What is so dashed interesting up here? Do you see a spider or something? You'd have to have the eye of a hawk to see it."

"Bertie?" She spoke in a quiet quavering voice. "How old are you?"

 

* * *

 

I ran into our dorm with the bottle of something firmly tucked into my inner coat pocket announcing that I never left, changing into my bedclothes in record time. We had a bed check after what felt like an eternity, but Stilton didn't pay much special attention to our dorm.

As if they were one clock counting down Chuffy, Bingo, Boko and Gussie descended on my room on my room exactly 500 seconds after Stilton left with Kipper and Biffy following to find out why everyone was meeting in my room. 

"What happened, Bertie?" 

"Don't try to pull any a gentleman doesn't tell stuff, or we'll turn you in."

There was a swell of laughter as Kipper and Biffy were brought into the fold with a quick explanation.

I wasn't laughing. I couldn't explain the way I felt but it was a mix of embarrassment and irritation that Little had put me into that situation. It seems, that Miss Lucas had been under the impression that I was one of the older boys at the dance - there to chaperone and make sure the girls are partnered. It was a rather painful moment when she realized this was not the case.

"She shoved everything at me and told me to run." I finished, "I couldn't figure out what she meant, until I heard voices and legged it straight for here, wiping my fingerprints off the glasses with the tablecloth on the way." 

"She was trying to get you to have to marry her." Biffy decided.

"Aunt Agatha would have never let you hear the end of it!" Gussie agreed this was well got out of.  Bingo didn't say anything, but left silently.

I saw Kipper moving my coat to have a seat and remembered I still had the aforementioned bottle. This, I decided sneakily, will be my chance to leave Bingo out of something. To, as some Chinese general put it, break his resistance without fighting. Then we'd be even. So I told Kipper to look in my coat pocket.

"Bertie..." Kipper said with awe, "you could get expelled for this."

"We should drink it all tonight, then." Boko said decidedly.

 Somehow word got out and before the evening was over the bottle had been passed through the whole house - fellows I'd forgotten I knew were sneaking in and out winking at me and calling me "Daredevil Bertie". I felt on top of the world.

The other chaps meandered back to their rooms after the bottle was emptied, broken and its pieces shoved into a hidden spot at the back of the fireplace. Kipper stayed around after the others had left.

"Are you going to be sick?" I asked. If he was going to be sick I wanted to make sure he was sick discreetly.

"No, I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Oh?" 

"Bertie..." he started and then breathed heavily before trying again. "You can tell me to butt out and I will... but, what's going on between you and Bingo?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I sniffed. But Kipper kept looking at me, so I felt like I had to respond.  "Well, it doesn't matter now. Little apologized beautifully this morning in front of witnesses."

"Little?" he wonderingly, "Do you mean Bingo? What is going on here, Bertie? Why have you two been speaking like you're vague acquaintances? You're the one who gave Bingo his nickname! If you're calling him Little... I don't even if I know his first name." He impatiently rubbed his hands across his forehead.  "You two have been looking at each other all...." he shook his hands as if looking for the word.

"Friday faced?" I offered.

"That will work. You two have been looking Friday Saturday and Sunday faced at each other this whole session. What happened? What's going on?" I thought of Little alone in his cubicle hearing us whoop it up. "Bertie?"

"Maybe you should try asking him." I said smartly. I was fully resolved to not think any more about Bingo.

"I have. He won't tell me what's going on, either."  Kipper paused, as if thinking. "I've heard a rumor that you two got into a fight."

"Its not a rumor," I said stiffly. "It's the truth."

"I remember in first school," Kipper started, "Bingo talked you into stealing biscuits from Upjohn's desk. You got caught and got six of the best and a verbal reaming for it." There was more to it than that, Upjohn was actually at his desk, but this seemed irrelevant so I remained mum. "And when you came back, still smarting from both verbal and physical blows, Bingo complained about how you didn't get the biscuits." I didn't remember this, but it didn't sound unlikely. "Now, if it were me, I would have probably popped him a couple in the beazer right then and there. But you apologized and bought him treats next time we were allowed in town." I couldn't quite see his point and I said so. "It makes me wonder what he did. Come on, Bertie. Whatever it is, I'll help you two work it out."

Now, anyone will tell you that when Bertram Wooster makes up his mind, he is chilled steel. I had decided to not worry anymore about the sitch between self and Little and I wasn't about to change my mind. But... Kipper was so full of sympathy, my steely resolve softened. He had always been the sort of fellow I knew to be trustworthy. Maybe he could bring a new view on things.

I cleaved my soul to his and confessed all. Kipper listened with an expression of gentle concern that didn't change even as I confessed some of the more shocking things Little said to me. He nodded thoughtfully as I told him about how insulted I was and only seemed startled when I admitted to giving Little the what-for.

After I finished my story, he was silent for a long moment.

"Have you considered...." he started and then stopped. "Bingo didn't exactly make this easy." He shook the bean, rubbing the upper slopes in frustration. "If Bingo were to tell me what he was planning to say to you - I definitely would have told him to tone a lot of that down.... But I would have assumed he would be successful."

I blushed richly.

"I don't know why you'd think that..."

"I know several boys that have arrangements like that, Bertie. I won't name names..." I silently begged him to name names (you can't say something like that and not name names) but he waved me off. Later, then.  "But," he continued, "you weren't really here when all of that started. It seemed like you knew about it though, because of how you were talking while you were sick. Bingo spent a lot of time hanging around and you talked a lot about how good looking he was and how many girls you were going to get to dance with him so he'd like you again.... You talked about how you two played at being married and made other comments... in the same vein."

This jarred a memory loose. It was a vague memory, gauzy in the manner that dreams usually are of saying "You are all too ugly for me to want to marry, even in pretend." I suspected this might be the sort of thing Kipper was talking about. I was beginning to see his point.

"I was confused about why Little was suddenly acting so oddly towards me."

"I remember you talking about it." He gave me a funny look, as if he sort of felt sorry for me. "Bingo was sort of being odd about it. But we all... noticed that you and Bingo have a closer friendship and its okay." He looked down at his shoes as he said all this and looked up at me hopefully. He must not have liked what he saw because he looked concerned and shook his head. "Even when we were in kindergarten... he'd blame you for things he did and you'd just take it."

It had been a pattern long established in my relationship with Bingo that he could always get me to do whatever he wanted. 

"I like... I like doing things for my friends..." I didn't know what else to say. But Kipper's talk about Bingo and I in our younger days brought to mind the nights we walked through shrubbery together and he'd court me and I got a strange feeling in the tum as I thought again of Bingo all alone in his cubicle.

"There isn't anything you're not telling me? Bingo didn't do anything to hurt you, did he?" 

"He gave me a black eye but the cook gave me a steak to put on it so that didn't last very long."

Kipper looked thoughtful. "I wanted you to understand that a bunch of the other boys were doing the sort of thing Bingo was saying and he might not have realized you didn't know. It was a bit startling for me as well. And, if you did that sort of thing with anyone... it wouldn't be that weird. I don't think anyone would think anything of it." 

Now that he mentioned it, I had noticed that boys seemed to be moving from cubicle to cubicle a lot at night lately. I had no idea. Now I wasn't sure if I shouldn't be offended that I wasn't having anyone come after me.  As if he read my thoughts, Kipper continued.

"I think Bingo might have sort of laid claim to you. At least that's what I got from the other fellows. Of course, he doesn't have the right to do that. In fact, if you wanted... I mean, I hear that its better, medically if you do it with someone else, even if its another cove." This was a lot to take in at once. Kipper sat with me a few more minutes before finally sighing and saying goodnight.

Beginning the next morning, chaps started be called into the office for questioning and soon my little escapade by the docks became a sort of Etonic legend. Several boys privately claimed they were the one who met with the girl with accompanying stories of differing levels of filthy. Catsmeat still repeats some of them to a rapt audience at Drones on rainy days. 

The older boys and the known troublemakers were questioned first. Then the investigation fanned out - it seems this had been a known issue at Wimbledon House and they wanted to make an example of the culprits. The known squealers were leaned on next. Then the do-gooders. And so on down the line in hopes that someone would fess up to knowing something.    Of course, everyone denied knowing anything. I wasn't worried about any of the boys in our house - they wouldn't tell on me. And they couldn't - not without admitting wrongdoing themselves. Except Bingo Little. I thought better of him, but I'll confess a part of me was worried he was sore as a gumboil about being left out.

Soon a rumor started that Wimbledon House was having a run of the measles and the administrators hoped to find the other party of the little picnic they attempted to gooseberry into. Strict quarantine rules were put into effect, even though no one as sick yet. Because of the strict quarantine we didn't see each other often outside of class. Gussie, Kipper, Biffy and I would still talk around our cubicles - Bingo remained so strangely silent that occasionally one of us would shout to him to make sure he was still there.

So, when he was called to the office for his turn at being questioned, I was nervous. Even more so since I woke up with spots that morning. None of the other boys confessed to having any spots so I was convinced I was caught. I was philosophical enough to appreciate that being obviously inclement would prevent a caning much like they did when I developed the chickenpox when I was at Malvern House in time to avoid a half dozen of the juiciest. I didn't report the the matter to anyone though. No reason to ask for trouble.

My turn to be questioned came next, with a note slipped under my cubicle that I was to go to the headmaster's office. Some weaker fellows would be in an absolute state about this, but Bertram Wooster remained calm because I knew I was on punishment velvet. There wasn't too much that could happen while I had spots. As I slowly made my way to the office, I could hear my Uncle Willoughby cutting it up rough. I'd always thought of Uncle Willoughby as one of my more jovial relatives so to hear him in such a state was unnerving. I listened for the sound of Aunt Agatha as she wouldn't let him have all the fun, but the voices I heard were more of the masculine variety. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was a sudden silence.

Most of my uncles by marriage and otherwise were sitting in the office. They were all dressed impeccably in spongebag trousers and waistcoats that suggested to me they had been pulled out of some sort of high end dinner party.  If they had been pulled out of some sort of dinner party to meet with me and the headmaster, I knew I was in for it. I flinched in anticipation of the hailstorm that was almost certainly coming my way. To my surprise, the headmaster not only got up and left, but shook my uncles hands and gave me a sympathetic pat on the head on his way out.

They all started speaking at once, then stopped, then started again. Finally, Uncle Willoughby raised his hand and got enough silence to speak.

"You must be wondering why we're all here." He started before looking at Uncle Cuthbert as if hoping he would pick up the thread. Uncle Cuthbert must not have considered himself up to the task because he cleared his throat.

"I believe we might all be intimidating the boy." There was some whispered discussion among them before Uncle Tom peeled himself off from the group.

"My boy," Uncle Tom put his hand on my shoulder jovially. "Let's get straight to the point. Do you know where you sister's gone off to?"

"Have you tried Aunt Agatha's?" I wasn't sure what else to tell them.

"Now don't be cheeky my boy." Uncle Tom seemed amused rather than annoyed. "Do you know if Jane had any sort of boyfriend? Perhaps a low fellow she wanted to hide?"

"I thought she was going to be marrying Mr. Collins."  

"She should be, my boy. This afternoon. That's the problem." He frowned.

"What's going on?" I ventured.

"I was worried this would be the case." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Your sister is missing."

"Missing? AWOL? Completely unaccounted for?" I was both impressed and pleased. Wherever she was, it wasn't marrying Mr. Collins and that's all that mattered.

"We were hoping perhaps she'd been in contact with you - as far as we can tell, wherever she went, she went willingly as she'd taken several valuables and a small valise." He harrumphed a bit and continued, "Dahlia and I have been talking, we've made a grave error in allowing Agatha to man the boat on caring for you. Even after the little one arrives, I want you to know you're welcome in our home anytime. And if Jane gets in contact with you, no matter why she ran, we'll make sure she's taken care of. If she's in some sort of trouble, we will settle it." He then hand-shook me a ten pound note folded up tightly and winked avuncularly. "A bit of phone booth money." he whispered.

I nodded, and left in a daze. I must confess that my first thoughts were of what to do with the 10 pound bounty I had just been offered. But I remembered that I was being selfish (something that Upjohn had reminded me of regularly) and focused on the reason my uncles had all come to speak to me.  Jane had run away? To where? Why?

I couldn't make myself be too worried about her. I tried to imagine her lonely and cold - something from a Dickens novel where everyone wears rags and eats porridge but all I couldn't believe my practical hard headed sister so much as stepping a foot out of place without a plan. I tried to split the difference by imagining what how long the two of us could live on ten pounds in New York.

Thankfully, now l only had to worry about my measles. I was starting to hope that perhaps I could hide them long enough to avoid detection before someone else showed signs. It was Stilton, in fact, who finally developed spots too conspicuous to hide, and it soon came out that all of the boys in our house had the measles except for Bingo Little. So poor Bingo was sent to the sick room to avoid getting and spreading the measles and - since there were so many of us - the rest stayed in loco.

Rehearsals for the end of year play weren't going to start properly until we were all out of quarantine - I studied my lines as hard as I could, asking Catsmeat for tips for memorizing. In return - Catsmeat insisted on commandeering the common room to dramatically recite his monologues as Mercutio, Kipper assisted him as Tybalt and helped him die in a manner viewed with no small amount of merriment by our fellow students many times.

I don't remember much other than that the fever was an easy one. Kipper was strangely obsessed with how many spots he had on his chest and came into my room almost daily pulling off his shirt and asking me to count them and seeming strangely disappointed with the answer I gave him - whether it was more or less. We were doing so well, we even began practicing sections of our end of year play with Mr. Brady. Romeo was noticeably absent, but I assumed he was one of the older boys who hadn't gotten sick.

The only rough spot was thinking about poor Bingo, all alone in the quarantine room. He had come to visit me when I had the mumps, even if I didn't remember it. Suddenly my revenge seemed small and petty, beneath a Wooster, not the supreme excellence some Chinese general thought. 

We were tentatively released from quarantine with, Mr Brady assured us, PLENTY of time to practice with the full cast. He'd been working with Romeo and Juliet, individually, and he was reasonably sure we all would put on a great show.

I met Mr. Brady in the hallway and it occurred to me that I still didn't know who was playing Romeo. I hoped it was none of the fellows I was fagging for. So I asked.

"Didn't Little tell you? You two are friends, right?"

I was confused - why would Bingo tell me who Romeo was? 

It wasn't until we entered the rehearsal space that I understood, and a lot of things that had previously been a closed book to me made sense.

It was Bingo. Bingo was Romeo. He, to his credit, looked rather abashed as he threw me a little wave.

"Hey, Bertie."

 


	5. The Play

It would have been nice to have some warning, but I handled it well - only starting slightly and making a small noise of surprise. 

During quarantine, I had developed a new awareness of my schoolfellows. I would listen to them move around at night from cubicle to cubicle and sometimes I'd feel strangely lonely. I found myself wondering if I should have heard Bingo out more or asked some questions.

A couple of days before quarantine ended, Biffy came into my room (I couldn't tell if he had something with Gussy and Kipper or if he was continuously forgetting which cubicle was which) and as soon as he realized his mistake he hissed "Don't tell Bingo."

I tried asking him about it the next day when we had a moment. He pretended to not remember for a minute and I almost believed him before he finally caved and confessed that Bingo had threatened to show any fellow who snuck into my cubicle at night the what for. 

"Its difficult to explain Bertie. We all had a long talk about it and its hard to catch you up on all of it. A lot of it... you kind of had to be there."

I understood enough. There was something strangely sweet in Bingo endeavoring to protect my honor from the other fellows. I found myself admiring his directness rather than this "I forgot which cubicle was which" nonsense. Kipper snuck into my room again that night to ask me to examine his torso for measles scars - of which there were none still. I explained to him that since there weren't any before no new ones were likely to appear. Kipper seemed to struggle to accept his fate of no measles scars. I tried to reassure him he looked fine without them, but I suppose sometimes a fellow gets an idea in his head...

Bingo had returned to his room after the quarantine was over as if nothing happened. It was as if the Bingo I remembered from first school woke up like Rumplestilt... no... that's not the name.... Rip Van Wnkle. The morning he was released from his wellness quarantine, Bingo greeted me properly for the first time since we'd started at Eton.

"Morning, ugly." He yawned as if to show how normal it was to greet me.

"Cheerio, face." I happily returned. 

It was a simple thing, but I was asked why I was grinning like a silly ass by every teacher I saw that day.

Even better, at dinner, Bingo said to me "So, you asked a girl to marry you last summer?"and called over several fellows from another house to hear.

So, at the time Mr. Brady revealed that Romeo was my best friend, Bingo and I were back to shouting at each other round the cubicles and responding in kind when one of us threw bread to get each other's attention. I wanted to forget about the whole thing. Bad behavior on both sides and all that - I held nothing against the chap and, if anything, I burned with shame and remorse over my own part. I took this new turn in things as a chance to show how completely forgotten the fight was.

Now as far as the play itself went... I know many coves in the theatre and have been invited to many a rehearsal, preview show, etc. I can say with some reassurance that Mr. Brady was full of beans when he said we had plenty of time - we only had two weeks until showtime. Time was sparse _._  On the bright side, the sets were made - older boys had already done "dry tech" (as those in the business call it) so the technical stuff was all finished. The costumes were let out and repaired in a manner that left my costume in particular much improved.

I wasn't exactly looking forward to wearing the dress I was told at tryouts would be the Juliet dress. It probably belonged to a schoolfellow's Grandmother; out of respect for this schoolfellow's presumably beloved relation, I'll try to keep my comments factual. Hanging up you could tell it once was a dress like the ones from the cover of one of Aunt Dahlia's unimproving novels. However on one particular Wooster, the skirt dragged onto the ground in the back and was rather flapperish in the front. It had such long sleeves I don't know how anyone ever wore it and that includes Grandmama. I believe they were called pavilion sleeves. No, now that I've said it, that doesn't sound right.  Well, they were named after some tall fancy sort of building and looked it.

Thankfully, in the time in between me originally trying on the dress and the actual rehearsal some good soul removed the yellow tattered lace that had been hanging for dear life onto the cuffs and torso area and replaced it with black trimming that was quite the thing. This same nimble fingered angel (who I imagined to be a kindly spinster great-aunt with a slight squint) did some sort of sewing magic - gathering here, tucking there so the dress as a whole looked less than completely ridiculous on a tall willowy fellow such as myself. Even better, the skirt spun around the way one would expect rather than hanging limply. On this new try on I appreciated it far more - it was silk in a striking magenta that had faded into mauve stripes here and there that gave it a touch of the old character - the black trimming was the touch it wanted to not look like a stylized silk sack. When I wore the wig (which was more of a hairpiece someone had sewn into a bonnet), I wasn't exactly a great beauty but I wasn't obviously a schoolboy in a dress either.

It didn't escape my attention that there weren't any other boys climbing into skirts, so I went to Mr. Brady for information.

" Jones was hit with the mumps and Anderson came down with the measles today. Its probably just going to be you and Lord Capulet, unless someone volunteers to be Nurse."

The boys filtered out in their costumes. In my concern over my own appearance, I had neglected to note what they were going to be wearing. Their costumes went the grandfather route - being more along the lines of outdated hats and tall collars than tights and codpieces. Not anyone's favorite thing, but better than the alternative.

Stilton, Biffy, Chuffy, and a few older boys I didn't know well were assigned to be stage hands - Stilton snorted a laugh at the sight of us.  He was rewarded for his troubles with Nurse's cap being plopped onto his head. I was amazed the director managed to squeeze it on his pumpkin head without bursting any stitches.

"It's your lucky day, Cheesewright. You have volunteered to play Nurse."

Stilton turned red for a few seconds, but stiffly marched to the dressing room to change. Mr. Brady severely simplified his part, eventually turning his lines  into a fancyish "Time to go, Juliet."

This first rehearsal focused less on us saying our lines and more on making sure we knew on this line to move here and when someone says that line to move there. I don't know how professional actors do it. Enjoy it, I suppose. I've known a few actors who don't know what to do with themselves without a director telling them where to be and what to do. I personally have had to give detailed instructions to friends of Catsmeat from his acting days on how to behave at a basic dinner party - those "All the world's a stage" types who don't know what to do unless someone tells them go here or say this at all times.

We were required to wear our costumes the whole rehearsal to "get used to them". In my case that meant practice holding the line packets in a way that made it look like I was gesturing dramatically instead of reading. The packets were numbered and ordered by scene and kept labeled in neat lines on a table with the props, except for the "balcony" lines which were physically attached to the ledge with the idea being that I would read them as I move from one area to another. He showed me how to pin them into the long sleeve of my dress and waved my arm like a windmill so I can see my exact line clearly.  I considered this akin to shooting a sitting bird, but I dutifully did it his way when reminded. 

After making sure we all know where to go, Mr. Brady dismissed everyone but Bingo, Stilton and self to rehearse one scene - I tried to go from memory, and he would say "Put your hand out, Juliet." which was his subtle way of telling me to look at my lines. 

We never finished the scene and ended up staying late.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Bingo said to no one in particular as I pulled off my wig.

"That's easy for you to say." Stilton said resentfully.

"At least I try to memorize my lines properly." I huffed. 

"Just do it the way he tells you, Bertie." Stilton begged. He was a fellow who liked his 8 hours and didn't appreciate being kept out late watching his schoolfellows do the Romeo and Juliet routine.

"I like the way Bertie says his lines without looking." Bingo offered. I gave him an appreciative smile.

"Well, you're not the director, are you?" Stilton irritably threw down his nurse's cap.

If Bingo was surprised or bothered by my being Juliet, he didn't say so. One of the few times I've seen him keep his feelings about something to himself. Our friends were all sympathy with the problems I had memorizing, except for Catsmeat who didn't seem to understand.

"I remember the words," I tried explaining to him, "but its like they get all tangled up and I trip over them before they come out."

"That's why you practice!" Catsmeat yelled in frustration, but he apologized very nicely immediately afterwards because he did know I practiced. Coming from a theatre family, he forgets how difficult these things can be for laypeople.

I started to write to Jane to ask her how she memorized her part but realized that it was pointless not knowing where to send the letter. No one asked me anything further about her whereabouts or updated me on the search for that matter, but someone sent me a clipping glued to a bit of flowery paper of a poem that started "Tell all the truth but tell it slant" that went on with something about lightning hitting children. My sister was the only person I could think of who would send something like that. I took it as a sign that she was somewhere safe. I kept it in my inner coat pocket with my cigarette card.

With Catsmeat's advice in mind, the first time Bingo slid up next to me and declared my hand a shrine he dare not profane, I was - I think, rather suitably startled. I did, however, pick up what he was trying to do. It helped, in an odd way, because in those moments I'd say my line in turn as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was too bad they couldn't start the play around me unexpectedly, because it was in those moments, I really shined. On one particularly memorable occasion, after Bingo declared that my doorway was the east, we got so caught up in the moment that when he said "I wish I was your bird." I shivered from stem to stern. The next time we practiced the balcony scene in class, Mr. Brady had to end the scene early because I collapsed with uncontrollable giggles every time Bingo said he would be my bird.

Mr. Brady made many such "adjustments" to the play. As director, he tried to be kind, but he occasionally gave in to the urge to make sardonic comments like  _Bertie if you want to write a play, feel free but please try to say it like its written for sake of argument._

My part was soon whittled down to half a table of packets that were only my scenes with Romeo with a few walk-ins by Nurse to pull me into or out of the scene. In turn, Catmeat's performance as Mercutio was greatly expanded. Gussy, in particular, lost the bulk of an already small part. He swore he had no objection to being reduced to a few lines and walkons. Catsmeat was clearly the star of the show - he had fully memorized several long monologues that weren't even in the version of the script we were using. The final version of the play was less _The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet_ and more _The Tragedy of Mercutio Featuring the Romantic Adventures of Romeo._

You wouldn't hear me complaining about the reduced stage time, I did not want to become the boy who plays all of the girl parts - which Catsmeat assured me wasn't going to happen as long as I clopped around like I was wearing Dutch shoes. With Catsmeat grabbing the attention, I found myself sitting around not doing anything as the others focused on sword fights and such. For whatever ridiculous reason, my presence was required so I spent most of my time watching Boko, Bingo, Kipper, and Catsmeat trying to not have too much fun sword-fighting. Kipper took to his part as Tybalt with vigor - showing an acting range I never would have expected from the fellow.  

"Good energy," Mr. Brady said as Tybalt proceeded to thoroughly trounce Romeo, "But, remember, in the end Romeo has to win."

I was distracted from trying to memorize and ended up watching Kipper's muscles ripple under his shirt as he fought. It was a revelation to me.  Watching a well developed chap move energetically could be oddly hypnotizing - I was a firm spectator at Kipper's boxing match well into our years at Oxford after this. I had only begun to properly enjoy myself when Bingo came at him with a renewed energy before "killing" him. 

"Great enthusiasm boys, but a little more focus is needed. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

My own prop practice was minimal - pretend to drink this and fall, stab this under your arm and fall - that sort of thing. Between the mix of boys having to leave for fagging duties, me struggling with my lines, catching up on other activities and schoolwork missed, we hadn't had a proper full rehearsal where we performed the whole show from beginning to end until the day before our performance for the school.

Romeo and I had been allowed, up until this last dress rehearsal, to make fish lips at the general air around each other when the stage directions indicated kissing.  Mr. Brady would say "That will work, lets move on." and it seemed a topic we could avoid. I hadn't given the actual performance much thought - I suppose I assumed that the fish-faced air kisses we've been doing would work. It wouldn't - Mr. Brady spoke to us before rehearsal. 

"I was really hoping you two would work this out but I guess I need to be more specific. We need to work on the kissing." I snorted with nervousness and Mr. Brady gave me a censorious look. "I want Romeo to act like he's kissing Juliet's hand sometime while you're talking about the pilgrims touch - upper side of the stage, that way even if you're several inches from Juliet's hand it will look good.  Now let me show you how to do the kiss. No giggling." Mr. Brady looked to me speaking in the stern teacher voice, so I did my best to be very serious. He tenderly placed his hand onto his jowl to show Bingo should touch the mug emphasizing downstage (on the side the audience would see).

"You aren't kissing him, you're only kissing the inside of your hand. Now, let's run the kiss."

The scene didn't go the way Mr. Brady would have liked. I, for one, would say the fault here lies as much with Mr. Brady as self. He shouldn't have told me to not giggle. Its like if you try to not think about pink spiders - you start seeing pink spiders pop up everywhere. Now that I had the idea in the dome that the thing to do was to not laugh, laughing was all I could think about. Especially with Little looking so serious. I did everything I could to control it - I directed my mind towards maths. I bit the inside of my lip. I bit my tongue. I even tried to suck in my cheeks to maintain my mouth in a more serious expression. But when Bingo put his hand on my cheek and leaned in where I could smell the gum on his breath I couldn't control myself and burst into a fit of the giggles.

"You can't be doing that on stage, Juliet." Mr. Brady said exasperatedly.

"I'm sorry, you put the idea in my head."

He acknowledged the fairness of this.

"If its an issue again, Juliet, put your hand on your face and look away - it will look like maiden modesty."

Juliet was very maidenly modest during our first scene in dress rehearsal, but we managed to get through it without me obviously chortling or snorting and Mr. Brady seemed to find it acceptable enough to move on.

During the balcony scene some line, I no longer remember which, reminded me oddly of my fight with Bingo over Christmas and, without thinking, I reacted accordingly - becoming angry for a moment and then being embarrassed I was angry.

"Good!" Mr. Brady shouted. "Keep it!"

Overall the rehearsal wasn't that bad, considering, since the majority of the actual action featured Catsmeat chewing up and spitting out every bit of scenery available to him.  We made it to the end without having to stop and only the most basic coaching from the sides. 

We had great hopes that our first performance for the school would go well but I suppose the professionals know best - my theatre friends have informed me a bad rehearsal leads to a great opening night and our good rehearsal seemed to lead to a disaster.

The morning of the performance Bingo was unusually quiet and still again. Rather pale around the gills, if you get my drift. We'd been excused from classes that day so I went into his cubicle to check on him. He didn't seem much for conversation but he didn't tell me to leave.

"You don't think you're getting the measles, do you?"

"What?" He said dreamily. "Oh, no... no..." 

I decided Bingo must be getting a touch of stage fright. Catsmeat says it happens to a lot of fellows. I reassured Bingo reminding him that he did a pretty good job at learning his lines and next to never got stuck during rehearsals. Bingo didn't really respond to this so I decided to leave him to it when he stopped me.

"Bertie..." He started weakly.

"Yes?" 

"Bertie, old crumpet?"

"Right here."

"Bertie, best friend of mine...."

"One and the same."

"Bertie..." I started to respond but he finally continued. "My feelings haven't changed since Christmas. I won't bring it up again if you say no but I can't go onstage not knowing, have your feelings changed since then?"

"Bingo..." I decided to tease him a bit and put on the embarrassed act. "I don't know... What if my feelings hadn't changed? We'd have to go through the whole show twice after that."

Bingo paled translucent and swayed slightly.

"I thought..."

I'd noticed a bit of tension between him and Kipper so I continued to tease him, starting.

"Kipper explained the whole thing to me..."

"Kipper doesn't know anything! He wasn't even there!" Bingo jumped on it with unexpected energy.

I realized I'd gone a little too far so I stopped him a kiss on the cheek like I used to in our pretend garden weddings.

"I used the past tense." I whispered in his ear.

"Oh... does that mean...." A smile slowly grew on the finely chiseled.

The show for the school was first - we did a show for the school and a show for our families and the "public". Bingo still seemed strangely wan but he was in costume and onstage. I was dutifully pinning in my lines when someone tapped me on my left shoulder. I turned to look to the left like a chump and a hand reached around on my right and stole my wig. Whoever it was disappeared from the prop area to the dressing area while I gave chase - eventually my invisible attacker threw down the wig and seemingly retired into private life. I set down my packet of lines and settled in to put my wig back on properly. I had only placed my lines between thumb and forefinger when Biffy, in an unusual huff of bad temper, saw me and grabbed me by the ear.

"There you are!" he hissed. He dragged me into position to enter the stage and suddenly I had crossed the curtain into visibility. My lines were still unpinned and tucked under my thumb in my hand.

It was as if the play had suddenly begun around me. For a moment, I felt as if the words I said had meaning instead of being pretty sounding nonsense. I thought of the way my sister would look at Mr. Brady sometimes while they were walking together - and I wondered if I looked at Bingo the same way. Bingo started to kiss my hand as Mr. Brady instructed, but instead of kissing the air above it, he kissed my actual hand. His eyes looked up at me as he said his line and it was the strangest feeling - as if my next line were what I was thinking.

Bingo place his hand on the old mug and looked at me in the same way that gave me the giggles in our dress rehearsal. I might have never laughed in my life. I found myself wishing he would kiss me for real instead of the chaste hand kiss and then he did.

The effect of his lips touching mine was as strong as one of Jeeves morning tonics. I was vaguely aware of him saying something as, through the ensuing fog, my hand went numb and my lines poured out of it like secrets from an overfull heart. 

I lost track of things for a little while. I was vaguely aware of a strange brightness. Bingo's face seemed to float in front of me as he covered his mouth. He seemed to have things all backwards, I was supposed to be the one acting the modest maiden. Someone shouted "Ho!" and I realized, as if for the first time, I was in front of a huge number of people. My friends, relatives, older boys. I had no idea what was going on. My lines were scattered like confetti. I looked desperately to Mr. Brady. We had a plan. If I got stuck at some point, Nurse would come in and take me off the stage.

I had my mouth open to say the trigger line for help " _I think I hear my Nurse_ " when I saw the way Mr. Brady was staring at me and in that moment I realized he'd seen us kissing. The boys in the audience probably assumed it was a fake kiss, but Mr. Brady must have seen it wasn't. Kipper was staring too and... well, Bingo was looking at something too... It was a mixture of relief and horror that I realized they weren't staring at me at all but something far worse.

I turned - behind me on the side of the stage was my Aunt Agatha and my sister engaged in energetic conversation.  Aunt Agatha seemed gigantic - she'd somehow seemed to have grown half a foot in height. Stilton was in his Nurse outfit hovering nearby looking like he was thinking about interfering but not sure how to go about it.

The chaps in the audience started getting rather restless at this interval - which is understandable. If the people in the show you're watching start watching something else you think to yourself things are starting to get a bit German here.

It occurred to me that by going to the female relations and getting them out of the way ASAP would be the proper path towards getting things back on track. But I demurred - not out of cowardice - but perhaps it would be better to go to Mr. Brady, who should by now know what he was dealing with in my Aunt Agatha. This all took place over less time than it took the last of my lines to gently float to the ground, but it felt like a horrible eternity.

The terrible paralysis that had gripped us finally broke when Aunt Agatha's voice became audible, "Look what you're doing! You're ruining your brother's performance!" followed by my sister's spirited "Me! You are! You ruin everything, you..." and followed by terms I wouldn't have thought she'd have known and a couple of new ones. Things started happening very quickly after this as the room filled with the sound of young men cheering and utilizing their new vocabulary.

Mr. Brady sprung into action, signalling Chuffy to lower the curtain while running to the front of the stage and announcing there were technical difficulties.

Jane was at my side as soon as the curtain lowered, helping here and there as I discreetly gathered up my lines. Mr. Brady, Stilton and a couple of fellows ran up to Aunt Agatha and took her off somewhere where presumably she could yell more conveniently.

"Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry we ruined your performance."

"It's fine, really." I was rather glad no one recognized that I was about to give the whole show a miss.

"It was really Bertie's aunt that ruined it." I'd almost forgotten Bingo was there. He seemed to realize that too. "Should I...?" He indicated offstage. We were, by now, the only people in the theatre.

"You can stay if you want." The timing could have been better, but it was a scorcher of a kiss. He stayed. I turned to my sister who was staring admiringly at my dress.

"That did come out well, didn't it? I was worried you might have grown too much for it to fit right."

"I was glad to be rid of the yellow lace." She leaned in to look more closely.

"It really looks quite striking when you're wearing your hair. I hope I didn't throw you off too much taking your wig, poppet, Brady told me the boys told him you did much better when you weren't given a chance to overthink and I thought I'd help..."

I shook her off.

"All of this talk of my dress and wig are well and good but there are more important issues at stake." She straightened my wig almost absent-mindedly. "Why are you here? Where have you been?"

"Do you remember sending me a clipping about the new film version of _Lady Audley's Secret_?"

I confessed I had - this tidbit was in one of the film magazines Bingo had passed to me. I had sent her a clipping about it in my last letter to her. The movie was originally a little novel whose title was among the unimproving books Aunt Dahlia had passed on to Jane. We had spent many a contented holiday with me looking up at the yellowing covers with flowers on the spine and a dramatic family scene featuring ladies with large hats on the front, listening to her read out loud. I no longer remember what Lady Audley's secret was other than it was rather juicy and she went to great lengths to keep it. But the title stuck with me because a good dozen more were marked with the words " _Written by the author of Lady Audley's Secret_ ".

"But what, dearest sister, does this have to do with you being here? Did you sneak out to see _Lady Audley's Secret_  and it all get away with you?"

"I told Mr. Collins I intended to see the film version of _Lady Audley's Secret_  and he had the unmitigated gall to inform me that I did not intend to see it as I was too intelligent and refined a lady. I ticked him off properly." A smile of pleasure creeped along the map. "After all our Aunt Dahlia and Grandmama weren't refined and intelligent ladies? My own mother not a refined and intelligent woman? I broke it off with him and he finally left saying I was too willful to be a proper wife."

"You broke things off with him?" I clapped with pleasure at first, but I let out a slow sympathetic whistle as I thought of Aunt Agatha's delicate state. "I bet Aunt Agatha didn't care for that."

"No." She swallowed. "Aunt Agatha didn't care for that. She locked me up in my room to think about it in hopes that Mr. Collins could be talked around by our wedding date."

"I say!" and I meant it with the utmost sympathy.

"I already had a bag packed and a plan with my maid. She snuck out letters I'd pre-written to everyone I thought would help explaining that Aunt Agatha had shut me up and asking for help. Mabel ended up helping me get out by getting sacked and sneaking me out while her brother distracted Aunt Agatha. He helped me get in touch with Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom arranged the rest."

"It would have been nice if someone had at least told me you were safe. Where have you been the past fortnight and a half?"

"Bertie, I told you I wouldn't miss your performance for the world." I wouldn't have wanted to see it myself, but girls seem to find something alluring about Shakespeare. "I've been hiding from Aunt Agatha. She must have guessed I'd come here to see you. I've been staying with Aunt Dahlia while she visits in London during her last few months. We've been holding out for the banns to be read."

"Banns?"

"Oh, yes. We wanted to make sure Aunt Agatha had no standing to challenge the marriage. Mr. Craven even lent us his London apartment so we could stay in the proper district. I'm Mrs. Sholfield, now." She spoke with a casualness that belied the bomb she dropped. Sholfield? We didn't know a Sholfield. She noticed my confusion and seemed to delight in it. "We don't have much time, dearest. My husband and I are moving to India - Uncle Tom and Mr. Craven have us all set up. We're leaving first thing tomorrow morning before Aunt Agatha can do anything further to stop us. You can join us - it will be just like we talked about."

"India?" It was one thing to move to New York to avoid Mr. Collins. That was more along the lines of an adventure I'd tell people about when I got home. India is something else. "I'd have to leave all of my friends."

"You can always make more friends, little poppet. _Since there is nothing so well worth having as friends, never lose a chance to make them._ " 

My friends were my family as much as she and Aunt Dahlia were. I quickly searched my memory for some pithy quote she might listen to.

"Cherish friendship in your breast, new is smashing but the old is gold." I wasn't sure I got it quite right, but she appreciated the effort and gave a slow nod. "Wait - who did you marry? Tell me the truth and don't make it slant."

"You did get my poem." She almost purred with pleasure. "Who wrote it?" She asked with a sly smile.

"Now I know the first name is Emily because there was lightning in the poem and I imagined the children in the poem being our cousins..."

"That's good enough, Bertie." She laughed, "Thank you for trying."

"Your sister has had the measles, hasn't she Bertie?" Bingo asked. I'd almost forgotten he was there. This was unusual - Bingo had a way of filling up the room with his presence normally.

"Why?"

"I had a breakout of spots this morning... I thought I could make it through the day, but I think I might have thought wrong." 

This rather changed the focus of things as Jane and I had to take Bingo to the medical room. As we left the medic, Mr. Brady appeared. 

"There you are!"

I assumed he was talking to me so I was preparing to give him the bad news that Romeo was out of commission when he embraced my sister with a kiss.

"Brady!" She blushed.

Nothing gets by Bertram Wooster. Most of the time when my sister is embraced by a suitor she rings the peal over his head so loudly that its heard downstairs. This blushing and giggling portended something.

"Well!" I said, "What's this? What's this?"

Mr. Brady's brow darkened.

"You haven't told him yet?"

"I was getting to it." I'd never seen her so chagrined. "Romeo had the measles."

 "I suppose I should check on him." He turned to me. "You did a good job, Wooster." My sister was already cooing over what an amazing and dedicated teacher he was - never-mind that he wasn't actually a teacher.

"I thought you were Mrs. Sholfield."

"It's a long story, dearest."

* * *

It was a story that soon became the talk of the school - Bingo missed most of it, being in quarantine with the measles, but I was more than happy to fill him in.

 "So, let me see if I got this right." Bingo slowly reviewed, "Your sister is married to Mr. Brady - but Mr. Brady's name is actually Sholfield because the school thought we wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

"Yes."

"And now she lives in India in a situation your Uncle Tom set up because he knew that your aunt wouldn't assent to the marriage."

"That seems to be the general idea." My Aunt Agatha had a fit to end all fits when she was informed the marriage was fully legal that was only interrupted by the arrival of a certain bundle of joy. After that, Jane was not to be discussed in her presence unless one felt like having a long painful scene.

"I thought she said you were going to India with her - did I imagine that?"

"I asked her to wait until the end of the school year." I was hoping that by then she'd be too settled into married life to push the matter, and that did turn out to be the case, as she was expecting already expecting a little stranger that summer.

"So Mr. Brady is gone? And the end of year play isn't going to happen?"

"The school is going back and forth on that. They say that since everything is completed and rehearsed we might still do it with one of the other teachers monitoring, but apparently they didn't approve of the changes Mr. Brady made to the script, or the costumes or... any of it really."

"I suppose we should practice our lines," Bingo suggested casually, "make sure we keep them fresh in our minds. I mean, if you want to, we don't have to..." he added quickly blushing a bit.

I agreed that we needed a ton of practice. We practiced all of our scenes with excellent results. Thankfully in quarantine, we had loads of privacy. By the time he was released to the student population it was clear that the school play was cancelled.

That night, Bingo snuck into my room

"I hope your Aunt Agatha isn't too disappointed."

"She has many other things to be disappointed with." I didn't want to discuss my Aunt Agatha. "I'm sort of glad the play got cancelled." I admitted shyly.

"Why's that?" Bingo asked anxiously.

"Because I nicked Juliet's dress, and if we'd done the play I might have had to answer some awkward questions."

Later that night, after our lips were sore from kissing, Bingo explained to me exactly what he and the other fellows had excluded me from - and he was right, I wouldn't have enjoyed it.

 


End file.
